As it turns out, I have even less time than I did during undergrad. There is a much longer author's note at the end of this chapter discussing future updates.

The moon is full and bright against the darkest indigo sky. Loose lines of smoke drift out into the horizon from the town, further down the hill, where lanterns are still lit and visible in the distance. On the estate, most of the lanterns are already dimmed or extinguished. Few servants visibly roam the grounds. Can't blame them.

A breeze blows in, and despite the layers-thermal undershirt, protective mesh, thermal sweater, jacket-the wind penetrates through with ease, striking to the bone. My whole body seizes and shivers with it.

In Konoha, it can sometimes be difficult to see the stars. With the furry orange monstrosities' little tantrum came a bunch of new projects: parks, housing, and an effort to update Konoha's power grid. With electricity came the street lights. With street lights, away went the clarity of the night sky: glittery sprinkles and all.

Of course I'm told they still teach nighttime navigation, it's now just a bit of a walk away. Here I get to see the little dots and sparkles that I'm absolute dogshit at using to navigate with. Well, I do know which way's north.

It's a very nice view. But not really worth a thousand ryo, not in my opinion. Under the first draw of the darkened curtain of night, I had scrambled up the sides, while everyone with a half a brain cell was wisely safe and warm, not risking their necks and spines on top frozen roof shingles. Ah yes, what a glamorous life I live.

To slip, crack my neck upon the icy ground, and live a short brief life as a quadriplegic. Sustained by the bare remnants of the paltry pension I've barely paid into unto I expire undramatically into some further dream kingdom beyond. And for what?

Lord Shijimi, distantly related to that Shijimi, once-favoured consort of a certain daimyo sitting on the throne. Out of favour now, but perhaps not for long. A fickle man of ever-changing tastes is our daimyo, and of course, she has given him a son. It's hard not to know of her in Konoha, not with how much money she throws our way, trying to buy our favour. Funny how Tora's always getting lost within the village isn't it?

Funnier would be the little heirs in the capitol surrounded by their samurai guards, drinking themselves blind and knocking up pretty young things with our taxpayer money.

Of course, as an employee of the state, I definitely do not have a problem with that (anyone who does should let the lèse-majesté laws marinate in their head for a good while, let the flavours sink in and get to know each other).

None at all. Long live the daimyo, may his reign be glorious, and may the ever-expanding military budget be generous.

Amen.

Within my boots, I try to flex my toes. I can't feel much sensation despite the signals I am sending and I try not to think of frostbite. I'm much too young to lose my toes. My wonderful, youthful toes that don't deserve to turn black and fall off. Huddled in a ball on the roof, I keep the camouflage jutsu up, continuously cycling inside the thin layer of chakra above the rest of my tightly suppressed system.

Really, where did I go wrong? Well, I suppose like all stories, it all starts with a beginning.

In the beginning, there was a man of decadent tastes and a sleepy estate out in the countryside. Far from the brothels, the restaurants, the luxuries of the capitol, isolated to this dreary border land. Some money from trade, but a little birdy down south tweets and chirps about the news of a railroad, and well, then towns like this might not be so necessary anymore. Or perhaps even more necessary.

And the Daimyo said: let there be a change, and there was an order. And the Hokage said: let this order be a mission, and there was a mission. And the skittering bureaucrats with their spiky black pens scribble down words and phrases until they all form instructions and objectives sealed into a mission scroll.

I hold my icy fingers against the comparative broiling furnace that is my neck, pressed beneath my jaw. It is still cold. Cold enough that the layers I wear still do not feel warm enough. It isn't just the cold but also my stomach. I would kill for a hot meal right now, a much better meal than the cold ration bars scoffed down hours before.

Visions of warm food haunt me: tormenting me with the taste of rich creamy golden yolk melting into a tonkotsu broth, or the bright sunshine yellow coat of omurice with a generous drizzle of rich demi glace over it. Soft, jiggling onsen eggs breaking open on hot rice and the pleasant heat of freshly brewed tea washing it all down.

Is it the chicken, or the egg? Was it already embedded and encoded, only waiting to be produced? Do I fantasize about food because I am hungry, or am I hungry because I fantasize about food?

Oh the things I would do for a warm bowl of oyakodon right now. Not that I have the hands for it, as they're busy gripping the slate grey roof tiles instead. Although the sticky tendrils of chakra keep me attached to the roof it's better to have additional insurance.

I wait outside in the cold blending in with the slippery roof. The packaging on the thermal socks had promised them to be "warming" and "super-effective" but my toes were numb beyond sensation. My weapon pouch digging uncomfortably into my tingling thigh, also steadily losing sensitivity. From here, perched like a gargoyle, I can see inside the window of his bedchamber, watching the target.

Fucking hell, how much longer?

Yuuhi, embedded into the household, is probably warm and toasty. Or at least, warmer than I am. Yamashiro, Yamashiro was likely sleeping in bed by now, tucked nice and snug into his blankets.

Lord Shijimi doesn't show any indication of being aware I am here, the peeper lurking from above. Neither does the butler, as he leaves the man's bedchamber, shutting the blinds and drawing the curtains closed. Thankfully, I am spared the possibility of him being undressed, hidden as he is behind the castle walls.

The target drifts off to sleep unaware of the intruder above him, chakra signature changing from that oscillating high frequency of wakefulness to the much longer periods of unconsciousness. Creeping downwards with only the careful grip of chakra keeping me from falling victim to gravity, I stop in front of the closed window. I had seen the room layout and I had a rough feel for his chakra signature, all I had to do was first land the tenterhooks of genjutsu onto him.

Once he is caught within the preliminary net I unlock the window and slide right in, closing the window behind me, and climbing up to the roof beams within the toasty warm room. Much better than my previous perch. Mmm, maybe I'll start to feel my toes in an hour or two. Would be nice.

Thanks to my gracious host, I am no longer freezing my ass off in the great outdoors, but inside to ensure he does not wake up while I conduct my search. Of course the man doesn't care about the activation of neurons to inhibit other neurons all for the sake of motor atonia so that even if he wakes, he'll be trapped helpless, like a beached whale. He's having the best goddamn sleep in his life.

There's quite a few ways genjutsu users describe the sensation of casting a genjutsu, from the technical to the abstract. It underplays the skill and subjectivity of the field when simply describing it as yin-chakra manipulation via yet undetermined likely complex mechanisms in the victim's body, but "play them like a fiddle" also isn't very helpful.

At least give some hand-signs. Really, throw in a couple technical terms for chakra manipulation too while you're at it. Fucking sage-worshipping hippies.

And so, while he snores on, I rifle through his drawers. Nothing incriminating on his nightstand, not so out in the open, so I turn to his desk. I do find his brush and pen collection within the first drawer, then ink and letter paper in the second.

Ah, why can't he just leave his lurid love letters out in the open? Why does he have to make this so hard? How inconsiderate.

Of course, half-way through serving the man his daily dose of prescribed sleep by genjutsu, there's a sharp disturbance in the vicinity. The sound of a foot-step, the flicker of a sharp spike in chakra that is quickly muffled.

Fuck.


It starts the way all good plots do: in the night, all conspirators huddled together 'round a wooden surface, with flickering light dimly illuminating the shadowy scene for the planning of their dark and dirty deeds done at a reasonable price. Nowhere else can you elicit such great work at such competitive rates.

Our lantern-lit room flickers and sways, shadows swirling about the corners to the tune of the shifting flame. Outside, the streets come to life at night. Even with the shutters closed we can hear the howling screams, rowdy laughter, the sounds of women, men, rising from the setting of the sun, for their day to begin in the dark.

Us merry four huddled in the dark around the low table on the worryingly thin mat. The warm yellow glow of the lantern muddles the platinum blonde of Yamanaka Junko's hair, stray strands almost translucent. Beside her is the unfortunately familiar Yuuhi Kurenai, chunin, fellow teenager, and the one that had tried to make conversation with a stranger in public. The horror, the audacity. Yamashiro Aoba sits to my right, Yuuhi's left, with his dark lenses off, hair somehow still sticking up with some unknown higher power or a truly miraculous amount of hairspray. One or the other.

"What about his mistress?" Yuuhi asks.

"She's only been with him for four months, will he even care?" Yamashiro says.

"I think he would. Four months is long for him." She counters.

"We only have two weeks. If this was something more long-term, I would agree with your idea." Yamanaka dismisses the idea. She shoots a reassuring smile at Yuuhi though, far more than the rather cool looks she's given me. Something about our introductions must have rubbed off the wrong way. I wonder what.

"The file said he has a strained relationship with his wife. His wife would simply try to silence or control the mistress, most noblewomen would." Yamashiro states.

"It depends," Yamanaka says, "Some, yes."

"Make his wife get rid of the mistress, then when he finds out, then do a murder-suicide on the wife?" I ask.

"It won't work." Yamashiro says.

"It could." Yuuhi counters.

Yamanaka-taicho shakes her head.

"Men like him, it's not because he's worried about his reputation. He just doesn't want his in-laws causing trouble for him. He would not do all this just for a mistress. Also, we want his nephew to replace him. The Hamaguri clan will otherwise swoop in." She explains with a smile.

This would be easier if we could arrange for an accident to happen to him. What a pity that we were specifically instructed not to. Oh deary me, he accidentally fell on that knife. Twenty-six times. I know, what a coincidence? Right?

"Wouldn't the nephew already be first in line?" Yamashiro asks.

"His relatives, and his wife's as well, will fight over who gains guardianship of the children. Whoever does gains Hosokute town, but also the ability to make decisions with the land rights. Shijimi Nobusuke has been delaying any negotiations for any railways on his land; whoever does hold his position after, could potentially make a fortune where he has not yet."

"Why hasn't he already sold the rights?" I ask. The copy of the offer looked alright to me, nothing particularly egregious circled out in the conditions, as well as a decent number of zeroes behind the amount of ryo the industrialist behind it all was offering.

"He has a hostile relationship with Inoue Ryoma, supposedly one that stems from childhood. Inoue has offered to build a railway to transport his coal, Shijimi did not agree. He claimed the offered price was too low." Our captain tells us.

"I understand the original briefing was very concise about this, but it would take too much time otherwise to explain all the details behind the situation. There have been other offers as well, but Shijimi has been using each one to try to increase other offers. Likely, he believes he can still gain a better deal."

"Shouldn't this hold up in court?" Yamashiro picks the document of interest up.

A copy of a letter, the original likely lying deep within Intel's cold, clawed grips. Neat penmanship aside, the contents are damning. It is no worse than the household accounts compiled in a neat pile on the table top, but yet, it seems much worse. A northern lord selling out, to Kumo it seems.

Yamanaka shakes her head. "Not necessarily. The Shijimi clan normally wouldn't let something like this reach something so public as court. Even if it does, they're influential enough that it shouldn't matter"

These things rarely reach court. That's not what they pay us for. Of course, there's nothing stopping us from expanding our business, growing our range of services, so to speak, tapping into a new market. Some Nara probably is doing the math right now. Tipping tapping away at a calcula-wait no, are there calculators? I never got a calculator.

Something about this, it feels slightly off.

"Psychotic break?" It comes out as a question, when it should've been a statement. "On the wife, I mean. Forge a few letters, make the affair seem more special than it really is."

Yamanaka smiles. A small one, but it's better than a frown.

"How would you stage it? How would you spread the news? And most importantly, how would that lead to his entire fortune going towards his son?"

"Genjutsu." Kurenai answers, teacher's pet. "She would need to start behaving erratically a few weeks before, which can also be faked using genjutsu. As long as it can be maintained, it won't be hard. She isn't trained in chakra usage, they don't have any samurai retainers. We could also cover and protect you if you use your clan technique on him if it's necessary."

Yamanaka smiles, lips drawing apart, perfect teeth gleaming from the dark shadows surrounding them. It's very lupine in essence.

"You would have to force multiple witnesses, as otherwise, they would be able to silence it up. However, it shouldn't be a problem." Kurenai adds.

"Thank you Yuuhi, very nice."

She pauses to take a sip of her tea.

"His wife's servants will report it. The children must stay alive."

It seems we've been led along to the predetermined conclusion. There's a satisfied gleam in Captain Yamanaka's blue eyes, which along with the gentle cast of lantern light in the dark, forms a reflective halo along the soft curve of her cheek. Older than us, in her twenties, but it is hard to tell exactly: there's no visible lines along her almond eyes, her seamless forehead, or the slanted angle of her jaw. A Caravaggio cherub emerging from the deep background ochre.

"Now, for the first part..."


I knock my fucking knee into the wall and I wince at the sound it makes. Doesn't matter as I scurry faster to cross the chamber via roof beams, hoping that the intruder doesn't bother looking up. Plenty of people don't.

Just usually they're not shinobi.

Motherfucker walks up the stairs like they're sure they won't be caught. Maybe they're that good, maybe it's just cockiness. Who knows? At first I only hear them, but then, as they approach closer, it's also the vibrating chakra source, not fully suppressed that even a sensor of such shitty calibre can detect.

Giving a gander at who might be intruding upon such an intimate scene, well, it's probably a man hearing how the floorboards creak. Or maybe a large woman. Who knows? They do grow them big, tough and strong up north.

Our resident big friendly giant is a lot quieter coming up the stairs. Learned their lesson did they? Too bad they've already tipped off any other hiding intruders lurking abouts within.

Hidden within the very dark corner of Lord Shijimi's inner chambers, a wooden beam pressed uncomfortably against my arm and back of my neck as I contort myself as small as I can, knees almost tucked into my chest, I question my life choices. Both of them, but mostly the most recent ones. Really, this ninja business wasn't very great. Terrible hours, horrible benefits, little-to-no workplace safety precautions, and toxic workplace politics that trickled down from above. If I had only just become something boring, something like an accountant. I'm pretty sure accountants don't have to huddle in dark unlit bedrooms that aren't theirs.

All while this happened I kept my eyes scanning the rooms below me. Very convenient how the rooms were not partitioned off with proper walls except for the newly renovated bathroom and the wall separating the chambers from the corridor stairs. Great, great, now please don't notice me. I am mostly harmless.

The intruder slowly cracks open the door, barely enough so that they may slide in. It is a very impressive shimmy they make to get inside and in the dark, it is hard to make out their features. Wide, taller; there's no good way specifics, except he's probably at least my height, if not taller. Definitely heavier and wider all around.

It's the single-shouldered flak jacket, paler than whatever surrounding fabric he is wearing and the stray beam of moonlight that shines upon the dull metal of his forehead protector that's noteworthy.

Three horizontal lines: one by itself on the upper left, two merged together below to the right.

What a clusterfuck.


"Kumo's here," I told Yamashiro once he locked the door behind me, "There was a chunin in Shijimi's bedroom last night. I didn't have time to find anything."

We're at the meeting point we'd pre-arranged: a storage room within a storage room, hidden deep within the servants quarters, and there wasn't much space for us to talk. With only the dangling lightbulb above for light, we stood up roughly an arms width apart in between the dusty children's toys and storage bins. Our morning check-up before I can do one final report and go to bed.

I'd expected more servants, when I had first heard about the place. Although the lowlands further south were more densely populated, Hosokute was built along a land route that allowed for trade to travel in from Lightning or Iron through the border nations. Yet, the servants quarters were, for an estate of its size, quite barren. Only keeping close the permanent, loyal long-serving members while keeping the temporary help at arm's length.

"What?" He asks, head turning around to face me. The reflective lenses of his sunglasses only show me a reflection of my face and how my eyebags are only getting worse, and not any sign of whether he understood me or not.

"Kumo's here." I repeat.

He turns to fully face me. Yamashiro's dressed in the navy blue shirt and pants that consist of the men's uniform for most of the temporary help, with noticeable dust stains on his pant legs.

"You didn't find anything?"

Of all things to focus on he chooses this. What sorry-okay. Fine.

"I was interrupted by a Kumo-nin when I was in the target's bedroom."

"Are you sure? When was this?"

"Positive. They had the vest and forehead protector. They showed up in the surroundings sometimes around midnight and stayed in the area, I only left after hiding in the bedroom for several hours without doing anything there."

"Describe them for me."

"It was too dark. A man, broad, with a Kumo chunin vest and forehead protector, otherwise dark clothes. Strong jaw, couldn't make out any other distinguishing features."

"Was he using a henge?"

"I didn't feel any strong fluctuations or signs of chakra usage from him, but I didn't dare thoroughly check."

He pushes the glasses up with a frown.

"Just near the bedroom or elsewhere?"

"My range isn't good enough to know if he was still in the same wing, or even building."

"Right," Yamashiro turns his face slightly in the direction of the door, probably checking it again, "Have you told our captain about this?"

"You're the first person I was able to make contact with, I'm going to meet with her after you. I couldn't find Yuuhi, so you need to tell her as well."

"I will." He said.

Good enough.


I wake up in the dark. After reporting, after lurking about town all day, I had tumbled into bed, exhausted. I had thought that was enough.

The familiar tension at my head begins again and I try to close my eyes, slow down my respiratory rate, taking deeper, slower breaths. Nausea builds in my stomach despite that as I lie on my back. And no matter how or where I shift my limbs, some muscle group here or there feels tense.

Was it worth it?

After counting the nth sheep of the night, I drag the blanket off of me and get up, bare feet shocked ice cold by the frigid floor. I walk to the window and draw back the curtains.

The inn was located not too close to the main road for travellers, but not too far either. It was near several other establishments that also provided lodgings for the night, and we had simply chosen it because of this particular one's age and location: old enough to lower the price, slightly elevated enough to provide a better view of the surroundings. This late, the town has mostly gone to sleep. It is still April: trade is slow, still recovering from the winter, and not all the routes have completely unfrozen yet.

Although the curtains are pulled open, it is fine at night, as long as I don't turn on the lamp. It's a small thing, but the inn near the end of the street, the one with the large red and yellow sign, catches my eye. It was an unobtrusive wooden three-storey inn in day time, one that would have been our second choice of residence if the prices here weren't so damn low. Well, we were paying for that now with all the mould.

The light from the window, two windows from the right, the one with the blue curtains, flickers off, then on again, before finally being shut into darkness. A yellow glow pierces through the window next to it, on the left, for a brief moment. Then it too is shut off. The light returns to the original window with the pastel blue curtains.

I close the curtains, shutting them tightly. Then I turn the light back on and stare at the centrepiece framed in the middle of the wall.

It's a painting that hangs in the room, dusty from years of disuse elsewhere. The dark monochrome palette and simplistic brushwork probably why, with the unnerving stare of the supposed monkey faces the cherry on top. Probably relocated from within the shared quarters after one owner finally had enough and had it taken down.

Three monkeys, arms stretched out, hanging from a branch. Ink on paper. Old. Red artist's seal pressed onto the lower right corner, nearly out of sight.

They peer down at us. Faint in the scant moonlight, they stare down at us in our beds. We're not monkeys, not by Darwin's measure, but maybe we are. Just like the painting.

With our monkey paws and our monkey tails straining out with our grubby little monkey fingers, grasping for a reflection out of our reach.


Of course, all good things must come to an end. It is the ways things are: we just aren't meant to have nice things. And, as we went searching for trouble, trouble found us. Just like Murphy would have wanted. In retrospect, it was a cascade of factors and activators, an avalanche of my initiation that had crushed any possible inhibition below its momentum.

That might be a lie. I had-after stumbling out of bed, brushing my teeth like a good boy who doesn't want a mouth full of dentures-gone to check in with the good captain, who then reiterated the commands she had given me the night before. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm incompetent. Or dropped on the head as a young child. Or both.

Well, it's good we're on the same page.

So I had gone out dressed to the nines as a middle-aged man, complete with greying temples and slightly prominent bald spot, earth-toned jacket and trousers that had clearly once been new, but now dwindled to a browny-something shade of one colour or another. Making my way around the neighbourhood, changing details via henge slightly every once in a while, and doing my best with my lackluster sensing skills.

Of course, the inn from last night caught my eye. In daylight I read the characters on the sign: the Daylily Inn. A flower is painted onto the board beside it, I guess it looks like a daylily. Maybe if you tilt your head and squint a little.

Like a good little pawn, I did my duty and gave it a second look. The exterior looks harmless enough, if not needing perhaps an update to the faded pastel paint.

I passed by the entrance feigning indifference. Looping around the street, I angled my way through the back alleys, trying to find its backdoor. It's a single wooden one: old, rickety. The windows facing this view are mostly closed, the few that exist on the building. I chose a corner further down, out of view from the Daylily Inn, covered not only by the alley walls but also a lonely tree, branches bare of foliage.

Waiting until the distance felt clear enough, I changed the henge once again, and walked inside. They didn't lock the doors during daytime, like I'd hoped, and there wasn't anyone to see me walk in. My luck had held out as the door led directly into a corridor, not into something like a kitchen or staff quarters which I'd been worried about.

A dimly lit one with a warm colouring dimly cast upon the surroundings by the new looking flower shaped lights. They were the only thing new about the place: everything else looked old, well-maintained, but old nonetheless. Walking up the stairs revealed a similar theme to the decor. I had walked past a cleaner already, but she paid me no mind, as she continued sweeping the ground with her broom.

I kept climbing, until I arrived on the third floor. If I had to explain my choices then to the captain, then I would not know what to say. I doubt "I just felt like it" would suffice.

Call it what you want, call it whatever you feel it sounds like, but dumb animal instinct had already led me so far and I wasn't about to let it stop.

And as soon as I spotted the opened door, that's where it betrayed me.

The attack had caught me off-guard. I hadn't been expecting it, which is the classical excuse, because that's every attack you don't see. Ducking too little, too late, my henge shatters as he had aimed for mass that was only an illusion.

His katana swings again. It goes beside my head and there's no time to draw mine. I dodge-barely-a lock of my hair is gone. Well, on the bright side, free trim. The sword comes back again. Snicker-snack snicker-snack, but I'm the one being snicked and snacked.

Shit. My wakizashi is barely enough for a block. His two-handed grip to my own.

I'm desperate, he's not.

I go for a kick, but he's ready. Jump to the side, duck down to avoid the edge of his blade, and there. The tenketsu in my hand surge and with a swipe my wakizashi digs into his left ankle then out. A clean cut.

His right foot connects with my shoulder and I nearly bite my tongue trying not to make noise. The pain comes in sharp stabbing bursts. It's not the time for this. His muffled scream indicates I've cut down to his Achilles tendon. He's not out of the fight yet. Hopping like a kangaroo, he spins down, blade drawn. Trying out for the Bolshoi are we?

He barely misses. A centimeter and a half of a difference.

I don't miss.

It is a terrible, gasping he makes in his final moments. Aspirating in terror before he loses consciousness one last time, as I slowly walk forwards to the bloody scene.

My shoulder is on fire in pain but my wakizashi is embedded in the bloody column of his throat. It comes out with a squelch and I wipe it on his shirt. He's dead, it's no use to him anymore. The blood has gone everywhere: seeping all over collar, onto his shoulder, and down into the floor. The scent too.

His neck, well, what remains of his neck is a mess. The wind chakra had carved a deep mark into it, past the layers of the dermis, through the muscle and connective tissue, shredding cartilage and fibrous tissue, sawing into the bone.

His body doesn't reveal much. Rifling through his clothes and pockets reveals plenty of scars (seventeen ryo in change too), like the long pucker on his bicep, but no distinguishing ones, no forehead protector hidden somewhere. That would make this all too easy. Pale skin (one hell of a farmer's tan too) like some Lightning natives but also common to northern Fire, dark hair, stocky build. Other than the scars, you would have a hell of a time trying to pick the fucker out of a standard line-up of men ages twenty to thirty from the region.

Well, except for the sword. I recognize those carved symbols; hell, I have a sword from there. Not the best, not the same as the daisho pair I inherited, but good enough of a substitute. I mean, I paid for it and all, compared to just stealing it off some sucker's body. Like that other sword of mine. Nice grip too.

Looking at the blade itself, the hamon is nice, notare-midare compared to the gunome I already have. Maybe I'll keep it.

The corpse and all its contents go into the storage seal specifically meant for this. And the blood, the blood, well.

I stand still in the middle of the room, waiting. Listening. The world outside the room moves forwards with the noises of the street the loudest: hawkers, carts, travelers. There is no obvious sign that the altercation has been noticed.

Sighing, I unseal the cleaning supplies from my other pouch and put the latex gloves on. As it turns out, D-ranks really do prepare you for the real world, whether you like it or not.

I debated whether or not to update this on FFnet, however I felt I should as I know most followers probably don't check up on this story often due to how slowly I update, and probably won't notice the edit to the description I've added. I don't intend on removing this story from this site, but I do plan on primarily updating AO3 instead now, as I do prefer the site and it's what I mostly use now. I don't want to get into the whole AO3/FFnet debate because, frankly, both sites do have their own advantages and drawbacks. It's just that I personally prefer AO3, its management, and the site layout/interface.

The story has already been cross-posted to AO3 with the same title, same username (again, I won't remove this story on FFnet) and future updates will be posted there. I hope you guys are staying healthy and doing well, during this time. Thank you for reading this, I will do my best to write with my dwindling spare time.