A/N: Since I got a lot of demands, and this chapter was ready then here we go, chapter 2. But I must warn you that the next chapters won't be updated as fast as those. I'm doing my best to cut the delays but at one point the story is still in the creation process, so the chapters would have to get out of my mind first, sorry...

But I can tell you this, you can expect long chapter as this one for the following parts. Hope you enjoy...

Summary : a man finds a body. When he picks up the ID in the coat, it reads "Detective first grade Mac Taylor". Is Mac really dead? What will Stella do when she'll learn the news? Angsty Smacked...

Disclaimer : I don't own anything. CSI NY and its characters belong to CBS and Jerry Bruckeimer.

...several hours before...

Buzz..... Buzzzz..... Buzzzzzzz....

The sound echoed in his mind. Buzzing and beating painfully beneath his skull. Tiredly his hand reached for the alarm clock, hoping it would be enough to stop the forming headache threatening to explode. Only he quickly found out he couldn't move his hand. Something wet and heavy was pressing it against a cold slimy ground. Ground? What? Was all his tired mind could form as he slowly became aware of the reality around him. Somewhere far from him the buzz continued echoing. Too far to be in his bedroom, he realized. Where the hell was he?

With painstaking efforts, he opened his eyes to a dark night. At first he thought he was still asleep and blinked trying to shave off the sand of sleep. But as he squinted more through the night, the only thing he could see was total darkness. He was either blind or somewhere with no light. It's a bad joke, was his first thought, his heart taking more beats than his body really needed. One more time, he blinked not sure he could trust his own senses anymore. But as he fought to clear his vision and lifted his chin to move, his head became heavy. A loud pounding began to hammer beneath his temples. He felt as if he had been on a ring and took a beating, only he had been on the wrong side of the glove. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he tried to gather his thoughts and focus on the present situation.

A thought bubbled at the surface of his mind. Maybe that's what happened! I drank too much and got beaten by some security guard or something.

Again he tried to move his arm but a rough iron bar was pinning it to the ground. What happened to him?

Then, the buzz stopped dead, leaving only a cold silence to answer his questions. After a moment, he realized something else was making a small sound far away, some kind of plopping. In a low and rhythmic beating, the sound echoed to the pounding headache beneath his eyes. He cursed whoever was responsible for this as his forehead dropped back onto a thick spongy matter, eyes closed.

That's when, he started to feel it. The cold and insidious sneaking hand of a thick liquid wetting his clothes, freezing his entire body. It was everywhere on the ground beneath him; a cold and sticky mud. His whole body was trapped, and he couldn't move. His face was cold too, probably covered with more of this freezing sludge. The cold was everywhere. Fear crept in his mind when he could barely move his legs nor feel them. A bit dizzy, his eyes opened slowly.

He couldn't really see much as his vision was engulfed in a dark blur. He tried to move his other hand, and this time was rewarded as he freed it from the cold mud with a sucking sound. His left side was free, and he was counting on it to get himself out of whatever was pressuring his back to the ground.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his left arm, his fingers deepening into the wet and greasy mud beside him. He then stuck his elbow under the heavy panel weighing on his body, hoping to lift it and give himself enough room to slip away from it.

He hoped only part of the rough material was over him, otherwise, well otherwise he was really screwed. He played on the forces in action, knowing he just needed a small space to crawl out from it. As he managed to raise his arm vertically, between the panel and the ground, he felt the pressure on his back and right arm easing a bit. Acting on pure adrenaline, he pushed further. Pain exploded in his arm as it was taking too much weight on it, crushing his elbow. He bit his lips, muffling a groan as his thoughts focused on getting out.

Hopefully, it was enough to free his right arm. He pushed on his legs. His knees cracked as if they were working for the first time and sent jolts of pain. But he couldn't afford to wallow in pain. Pushing the pain aside, he quickly crawled out, not even caring when traitorous splinters protruding from the panel bit his left shoulder as adrenaline was pumping through his veins. Although, he felt something warm slowly leaking under his clothes and rolling down his back, he kept pushing on his legs giving all his strength. Almost halfway, he puffed heavily and stopped. His head dropped down into the cold mud cooling his burning forehead. His head was about to explode. His muscles were strained and pleading him to stop. His body was aching and the simplest move felt like a terrible effort. He didn't know why he was suddenly feeling so tired, but he had to go on, and so swallowed the rising bile, ready to get out no matter what. But it was without counting on bad luck.

"Oh god," he gasped at a sharp pain burst in his shoulder, the panel pressing further on his back. The splinters were cutting into more flesh with the help of the heavy panel; crushing his elbow and wrist. His left fingers clawed painfully into the soggy mud, trying to keep his arm up against the panel. If it slipped now it was over for him. There was no way he would be able to lift that panel again.

Sucking up the pain, he offered a final effort as his arm reached in front of him. His fingers slipped in the soggy mud before his hand caught a rug material made of concrete. As he clung desperately into it, the thing seemed strong enough to resist his weight, and he pulled himself out with a deep groan. As soon as his chest was out of the panel, he rolled on his right side, freeing his legs and then his left arm. For a second, the splinters deepened more in the tender flesh before he could fully pull his arm out in a cry. The heavy panel cracked in a yawn as his arm was now free and crumbled in a resounding thud.

Though the ground was damp, black mud seeping through anything, the panel was covered of heavy scattered pieces of broken plaster. Now free, it lifted in the air a giant cloud of angry dust before it swallowed him in a ghostly hand. Unfortunately, it was too dark for him to see what was coming, or he would have taken a deep breath and tried to cover his mouth. Instead, the nasty cloud caught him breathing heavily as he was trying to slow down his heartbeat. Expecting fresh air, his throat quickly filled with heavy and itching particles. He choked on the dry sand scorching his throat, and fell on his knees as the air started burning his lungs and trachea.

His eyes watered under the burning fire, blurring his vision. His heart beat fast behind his ears. Trying to get more air, he gulped avidly at the toxic air and was run by a wave of nausea as his stomach churned. His breath came in short rasps, and he was about to pass out, when the air grew lighter, oxygen finally finding its way toward his weary lungs as the cloud subsided, in a silky veil of white dust.

After what seemed an eternity, he was finally able to breathe without coughing at each breath. Cursing his bad luck, he spilt the taste of dry plaster filling his mouth, trying uselessly to get rid of the dust covering now his throat. It was like swallowing an entire dune. His jaw tightened even more as his fingers pattedslightly at the soaked fabric covering his left shoulder and arm. Blood was slowly oozing from the opening cuts. He sighed, picturing the crimson flesh torn under the garment, and already reddening his shirt. Although it was painful, he would survive. At least it wasn't a total bad luck, he decided, trying to keep a positive attitude toward this mess. A light cough cut his thoughts when he looked down at the broken panel on the ground, a deep frown creasing his face. Well more like squinting down, he corrected, as he couldn't even see his hands.

Blind, he patted the rough wooden panel and stepped clumsily around it. It was a long and squared piece of wood, so big he guessed it was probably from a wall. How the hell did I end up under a wall? His fingers slowly scanned the place trying to find an explanation.

Raising his head, he noticed far away above him, a shy light scattering its faint rays down, as if an angelic light was cutting through the dark fabric surrounding him. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough for him to see distinct things, and so he would have to stick with sparse shapes. Yet, it was the first gleam of hope since he woke up, and he wasn't ready to give up. His hopes up, a warm energy rose through his tired muscles. If there's light, there's a way out, and possibly a rescue party looking for me.

The coughing almost forgotten, he raised himself to his feet but stop dead when he suddenly felt a flare of pain flashing through his right side, a faint moan escaped his lips. Not again! Can't I get a damn break? Why does he have to be in such a mess? He cursed mentally as the air grew heavy around him. He felt light headed; a wave of dizziness hit him. Inhaling a deep breath not to fall backwards, he put a knee down into the sludge, splashing more wet mud onto his paints as he winced under the pain. He pressed delicately on his side, and muffled a curse as his fingers came back covered with a thick liquid; blood, and growled more when he noticed the metallic ring hanging loosely around his right wrist.

"What the hell is that? " he cursed between his teeth.

Racking his brain, he tried to remember the last thing he had done that could have sent him into this misery, but his thoughts were jumbled and each try provoked a wave of dizziness followed by a cold, flashing pain slashing through his brain. He breathed heavily as unexpected images came to his mind; crashing rocks, melting iron twisting through a whirlwind of flame and black dust printed before his eyes as an ocean of screams wrenched his ears. He could hear them all, beating beneath his skull, as if they were trying to escape his mind; their prayers and shouts giving a new meaning to the word nightmare. It can't be true. They aren't real! It just a nightmare! A freakin' damn nightmare, his mind screamed.

And then, the cries and screams faded. He closed his eyes, not sure of what had just happened. Was he nuts? What does it mean?

But then, as he was taking a deep breath, he felt it again, but it was different this time; like a tidal wave submerging his body, drowning his consciousness, swallowing him into infinite oblivion.

His hope was gone, how could he live? How could he live? These single pulsing words were all he could remember, all but that suffocating, wrenching pain seizing his heart and chest. He was suffocating. Air couldn't fill his lungs anymore. He wouldn't be able to live now. He knew he was dead inside. His life was dead. His very being was gone. He desperately tried to breathe, but his lungs remained painfully empty. His hands dropped into the cold sludge before him to support his heaving body. Panting and gasping for air, he tried to shave as much as he could of this awful memory that seemed carved in his brain, his DNA, his very heart and soul. He exhaled in short rasps. He was dead...or in hell.

"How,...what?" Was all his mind could formulate under that terrible void he could feel inside. Something was missing, but he didn't know what.

He knew, if he could remember everything he'd learn it was hell. He had been in hell. That feeling was so heavy to bear, no wonder he couldn't remember more than a few tormented shreds. As he convinced himself that it was just a nightmare, something that would not exist in his mind, unless he allows it, he felt his lungs starting to expand a bit, opening in full wealth, swallowing eagerly each breath. Maybe it was a dream. It had to be. And deep inside he prayed it was true, he didn't want it to be real. It hurt too much.

The pain was so strong, it frightened him. Though he could bet it was only a shed of it, like the top of an iceberg. Even now, he had no clue from where, or what it was? But frankly, he wasn't eager to know more now. No, he just wanted to forget about it. Bury it deep inside his being and never look back. Forgetting was a good thing, and he wanted to embrace it with his heart and soul, and never be reminded of it at all.

As he glanced around him, one question was now filling his tired mind as he could fully breathe. Where was he? And more important what happened to him? But then the answer would have to wait as a more pressing question surged in his mind; wrinkling his forehead and scaring the hell out of him. His lips opened and closed slowly not able to say it. His jaws clenched under the dreadful realization that he didn't know this simplest thing and yet so important to anyone; hisname. The line on his forehead deepened as he pushed all other thoughts away, looking for the precious information.

"My name is...." he mumbled in a croaked voice. "My name is...."

His heart began to beat louder beneath his temples as the answer was slipping away from him, out of reach. His fingers closed into a ball at his side, mixing the sludge and the blood into crimson goo. What the hell had happened to him? Who was he?

In a hopeless motion, he closed his eyes, his hands pressed on his pulsing temples hoping the pounding headache threatening to take his sanity would finally subside. He muffled a curse as his left hand was welcomed by a giant bump protruding from the left side of his face. Underneath his fingers, he felt the familiar and warm liquid wetting his hair, as his hand came back covered with a mix of fresh blood, dirt and sweat.

What else is new? He growled at the dark opening over him. Was there any part of his body unharmed? He sighed heavily. He was tired and far from being out of this mess. At least, his legs were still good, he thought trying to see the bright side. His hands tiredly ran into his damp and messy hair. I'm so screwed.

After several minutes of deep breaths interrupted by loud coughing, he turned a weary sight to the mess he was in, noticing for the first time, the dust and shadowy bent poles spiking through pieces of walls all around him. His eyes were probably getting use to a no-light environment, helping him this time, though he had to squint at the things for a long period of time before seeing a complete shape.Even the aftermath of a battle doesn't look like this wreck. But fear was starting to creep up his neck as he realized the place seemed long gone deserted. Between shadows and the faint rays of light, he distinguished what might have been the old basement of some kind of building. Looking more carefully, it seemed the whole building had crumbled on itself.

So the good news was that he was probably in a city; the bad would be that the whole building had collapsed on itself, and judging by the rusty pipes and the amount of plaster dust this was a really old building. Meaning he might just be in an abandoned suburb. To add to that, he was in the wrong story. Beneath all this wreck, there was no way anyone could hear him calling for help. He let out a weary breath.

He had no idea if anyone was looking for survivors, or if anyone was looking for him. He desperately wanted to know, but all his memories were just slipping away, all but those ragged terrifying images tearing his heart. Worn out from the loss of his own identity and his decreasing state, he finally gave up on the where and who, raison taking over. He had a more urgent matter to deal with right now. How the hell was he going to get out of here? And where is here anyway? But first he had to take care of his wounds if he wanted to have time to get out of this damn hell, alive.

Carefully, he unbuttoned his shirt, the thick cold smudge sticking it to his black t-shirt underneath. With the faint light, all his clothes looked the same as a thin, white dust was covering pretty much everything, from head to toe. And so he wasn't going to find any clue to help with his jumbled memory. He sighed, slightly lifting the t-shirt to check the wound. A wince carved his face as the fabric grazed at the skin and pulled on a raw wound. Very slowly, he lifted the wet and bloody fabric revealing a small crimson hole in his side. Cool air came immediately in contact with his sweaty skin, sending chills along his body. Wherever the hell he was, this place was cold and probably would be cooler as adrenaline would wear off with time. He sighed, his gaze leaving the small puffy cloud forming before his mouth.

Cleaning his hand as much as he could from the mud covering his fingers, although his clothes were covered by the wet freezing sludge as well, and despite the shooting pain, he pressed gently on the skin near the wound, checking if it was deep as there was no exit wound in his back. It was a clean opening and besides the throbbing ache slashing through his side, he concluded that whatever had gone in, hadn't done any deep damage besides the hole.

A break at least, he thought. He didn't know why or how, but he knew it was too far from any vital organs to be deadly. He thought for a moment, pondering what this could mean. Maybe he was a doctor or someone like that. That would explain why he knew this kind of stuff or wasn't much upsetabout it. He sighed not really closer to an answer than a few minutes ago. His gaze wandered back between the shadows circling him and the wreckage where he pulled himself out. He hissed as he pulled his shirt off, and twisted it from one sleeve to the other to finally wrap it around his waist; the bigger part pressed against his wound to stop the bleeding. Then he tied both sleeves over his stomach with a knot; his tight lips letting out a gasp of pain. He hoped it would hold long enough until he'd be out of here.

He turned his head toward a rhythmic sound, coming from the right; some kind of drops falling repeatedly onto something smooth and wet. Pressing lightly on his side with his palm, he stood up, and headed toward the sound. If it was water, it had to be dripping from something like a pipe or a hose; meaning he might cling into it, and perhaps if it was strong enough, help him to makehis way up.

His arm nestled protectively over his wounded side as walked slowly into the darkness. He staggered a moment taking support on the nearest protruding pole. His hand gripped the cold iron bar to keep him steady as he took a deep breath, clearing his mind and shaving away the dizziness. Come on! Suck it up! His mind scolded as he swallowed the sandy taste of dust; the plaster dust still lingering in his dry mouth.

He took a few steps and then managed to climb over a bunch of tangled pieces of rocks, pipes and poles. Most of it looked like it came from walls similar to the one he had slipped from. He cursed as his foot slipped on something slick, and he tumbled forward, crashing clumsily on his left side. A small grunt raked his throat as he rolled on his back grateful he hadn't fallen right on his wound. Though, if he wasn't sure before, he could now swear the shooting pain in his left was from one or two broken ribs. His head dropped back onto the ground as he rested, the cold sticky sludge soaking his hair. As he lay motionless, lulled by the rhythmic beating of the dripping water, he suddenly heard another sound. It sounded very familiar though. It's a phone, his mind screamed overwhelmed by hope. A new energy filled his body as he got up wincing.

Still struggling to make his way through the wreck, he finally arrived close to the sound as it stopped. His eyes scanned avidly the whole obscurity before him, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. He froze, his foot had walked on something too smooth to be a rock. Putting the phone aside for a moment, he looked down and sighed unable to see anything else than a big dark shadow beneath him. His knees cracked as he crouchedin the freezing sludge,his fingers starting to rummage through the cold mud and rock. Between shards of wood and steel, his fingers finally grazed on something smooth and tender.

He held back his breath. Even covered with mud, he would have recognized that feeling anywhere; skin. A bit stunned, he probed further to reveal a hand. Frowning, his eyes darted through the obscurity, trying to see who it belonged to, and maybe if that person was still breathing, otherwise he would have a dead body on his hand. He smirked, noticing his heart didn't even bother to skip a bit at the word. Could be the proof he was working in the medical field. Or as a coroner. He frowned, wondering if working with dead people was such a good activity for a living. Somehow he didn't feel at ease with this idea. It kind of bothered him. Death couldn't be a sane business. He quickly put the idea aside, and started to dig around the arm stuck under a panel.

Suddenly, the same ring as before echoed in the darkness. Whoever the phone belonged to, was missed, although this time it felt more pressing and urging to be found. He cursed, finding that phone before it'd stop, was going to be almost impossible, unless he'd just happen to step on it. Damned darkness! He grunted angrily, if only he could see a bit. He squinted, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. It's close, very close. But before he could do anything, the ring stopped dead. Only silence remained. He cursed, one more opportunity to get the hell out of here that had vanished right under his nose. With a small curse, he went back digging around the arm.

"Sir?" he asked, as he looked at the obviously male hand. He slightly shook the arm trying to get some physical response. "Sir, can you..." his voice trailed off as he stifled a loud rasping cough and winced; his chest run through long tiring spasms.

The pain coursed through his lungs and side as he shook under the cough, his lungs now on fire. Bent over, he focused on breathing slowly, one small breath at a time. After a moment, the burn slowly subsided in his throat, but the fire remained in his lungs, burning like a million of hot thorns embedded in the tender flesh. Only able to take a shallow breath, his dry mouth swallowed slowly, trying to cool his burningthroat. His left arm taking support on what look like the half of a bathtub, he tried to call again. To his surprise, his voice came out weak and coarse like a grunting whisper, barely recognizable as human.

"Sir, if you can't talk," his voice grated through his ears. "Just... squeeze my hand," he managed to let out between raspingcoughs. "...Sir ?"

He waited a moment but no sound came back, only the ghost of his grating voice echoed faintly in the darkness, reminding him how alone he was. Loneliness started to weigh on his shoulders as he looked down at the shadows of the hand. If the man was still alive then he was either dead or unable to speak. Either way, it was up to him to get him out if he was still alive.

With caution, his fingers dug deeper into the freezing mud. At first, it was easy as his fingers deepened easily into the cold, smooth matter. But soon, the mud was replaced by layers of frozen gravel, and he had to stop; his scrapped fingers numb. Looking down at the space he had made, he was able to see that the upper arm was now free. Though, it was obvious that the panel was still pinningthe man to the ground at the elbow level, digging him out wasn't going to be easy.

His arm carefully cuddling his side, he stood up and observed the panel for any weak point. With the dim light coming from upstairs, and his eyes now used to the dark night, he noticed a small groove in the panel. A faint smile carved his lips; an idea forming in his mind when he saw the long steel bar underneath, and preventingthe panel from falling completely on the man.

Cautiously, he knelt near the top end, and began to lift it, the main weight pressing on his left shoulder. With a small crack, the panel started to slowly move down as he pushed on his legs and lifted the cracked wall over his shoulders.

A crack warned him he had to hurry before the panel start to break in half and fall onto the man underneath. His face reddened under the strained effort he was putting his body through, but it was the only way he had found so far. Taking another deep breath, he pushed with his hands. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples as he ignored the dullpain erupting in his right side, and the panel was lifted a few inches more. The hot pain turned icy, and he began to shiver, streaksof sweat now running down his back. It was like someone was twisting a knife in his side, a cold and icy Popsicle knife, and then taking it out and stabbing again and again. He muffled a cry of agony as the pain reached a new level; the panel now close of his head. The cold plastered wall began to slide from his sweaty fingers. With one last effort, he pushed it to the side just before the pain exploded in his side. As soon as the panel touched the ground, a heavy cloud of dust flew from the wreck, wrapping both men in a thick white cocoon.

His legs buckled under him, and he dropped in the sludge, drained. One hand before his mouth, he looked at his side, the other pressing tiredly over the wound. Despite the throbbing pain, he tried to remain calm. Only when he brought back his fingers covered with thick crimson blood, he knew something had gone terribly wrong. He prayed somehow the guy he pulled out would be in a better shape, as he wasn't going to be of a lot of help with blood oozing this fast. If not then, they were both screwed. He cuddled his arm to his side, pressing shakily on the wound and hoping it would slow down the new flow.

"Sir?" he asked again, hoping the guy had heard him.

Looking down between the iron bars and dusty rocks he could now distinguish the back of the man, and his dark coat; the other part still remaining hidden by the darkness. Standing up with difficulties, he stepped over the bars, the man was only five feet from him. Small pieces of wood broke under his weight as his foot crushed a thin wooden pole; reminding him at the same time he had to be careful. More careful, he pushed aside the shattered remains before he was finally able to reach the man and lifted a few bars still trapping his legs; a small panel still hiding his head.

Pushing the small panel aside, he let out a small gasp, discovering with horror he was already too late for the man. A long heavy pole protruding at the place his head should have been, leaving no room to guess about the man's condition, though a dark crimson pool underneath confirmed there was nothing he could do for the poor guy. He was dead.

"Damn it!" he let out, before coughing again, the gritty dust still itchinghis throat. The poor guy had no chance to survive to that. He knelt near the body. Somehow it felt oddly familiar, but he quickly shaved the feeling as he looked at the corpse. The man was wearing what looked like a dark suit under a coat. He didn't know if it was a dark blue or black, with the poor light given by the crushed ceiling, though it didn't really matter now.

Rummaging through the man's pockets hoping to find a clue about why he was there, his fingers met something cold and metallic before they pulled it out. He frowned, his eyes darting at the metal plate clung to a leather wallet. As he twisted it between his fingers, the metal caught the faint light coming from the ceiling, and reflected the image of a golden badge; the blue letters of NYPD carved in the middle.

"A cop?" his grating voice echoed.

Just under the letters, four digits appeared in the same golden glow : 8433. Looking back at the man, he wondered how this cop had ended up in this mess with him.

Bending closer, his eyes caught the glimpse of something reflected on his jacket. As he pulled on the lapel, some dust was shaved away revealing a small roundpin. That's weird.

But his attention was already on something else, as his eyes were now focused on a dark object near the man, covered by the same white dust; inches from the man's hand laid a gun.

He swallowed the knot forming in his throat, as his mind was adding the pieces together. If the cop was here and his gun out, he could easily guess he had used it. He sighed, letting the idea sank in. Meaning the hole in his side and the icy pain slashing through his chest could be from a bullet. That wasn't good. If he had made a cop shoot at him then he was in a worsemess than he thought.

But before concluding on anything, he thought he'd better check the cop for anything useful. Frowning, he checked the other pockets in the coat and suit and stopped when his fingers came back wet with blood. As he looked closely, he found the coat soaked with blood. Searching for a wound on the cop's back, his fingers met the cold metal of a blade protruding an inch from his back. As dreariness started to weigh heavily on his shoulders, he lifted the man, turning him on his back. He needed to be sure. His throat tightened, his eyes piercing through the thick obscurity as he saw the white shirt soaked in blood; a short knife entering right under the stomach, the blade exiting near the backbone.

He looked back at the still form laid between the pieces of walls, and back at the badge in his hand. It wasn't hard to conclude what could have happened as he read the ID on the wallet. The man, known as detective Mac Taylor, had probably struggled with him; he deduced the knife belonged to him, making him a cop killer. Mac Taylor's killer.

Slowly, he swallowed the hard truth. He was really screwed. He had killed a cop. He sattiredly into the cold sludge, making a sucking sound. His right hand ran aimlessly through his short damp hair as the small metallic sound of the cuffs sliding down his arm echoed like a lonely complain in the darkness. What should he do now?

But before he could really think about it, it started again. That same damn ring mocking him to be found, although this time, he could hear it close to him. As he moved to his left, he saw it. Like a shining beacon in the middle of a dark hurricane, it was there. A faint shy glow, just under the man's left leg.

As he picked it up, the ringing stopped dead. He pressed on the screen, the shy bluish glow glistening on his tired features. It read five missed call. Someone had tried to call this cop; some woman named Stella, and obviously she was worried sick for him, he sighed. Stella.... Who is that ?

xxx

TBC...

A/N: so here is the time to leave your comments and help me to write faster. So go ahead and tell me what you thought of it...

Can you guess who is the mysterious man? Raise the stakes...:)