Taken

Conflagration

"Brother." The Ba'al clone stood impassively at the foot of the sarcophagus, his hands bracketed at his waist. "Come now. I see no real benefit in this tactic."

"You know as well as I that there is no other way." His voice contained an edgy quality that Glinda immediately recognized as characteristic of the species. Symbiote squirming in his hand, the other Goa'uld positioned himself directly behind the Colonel. He raised his free hand to her nape, smoothing away stray strands of honey-gold hair. "Stand still, Colonel. This will cause so much less pain if you cooperate."

His fingers skimmed the back of her neck, and she flailed at the touch, thrashing within the grasp of her captors, her cries low, gutteral, and raw. But their large hands slammed her back against the steel doors, holding her still. That the slight bulge of her pregnancy protruded just above the desk made their pose seem even more wrong—even more appalling.

Glinda could see the clone raise the snake, watching in abject horror when it seemed to expand, its mouth gaping as it perused the pale skin near the base of Sam's skull. It hissed, jerking within the Goa'uld's grasp, and thrust its head further forward, its tongue licking at the area exposed by the Goa'uld's fingers.

"No!" But the protest, rendered tinny by the metal of the cabinet door, was roundly ignored. Sam bucked again, trying to turn. It glared painfully obvious that she was too outnumbered—too reined in by the heavy hands on her arms and the bodies fencing in her legs. "Ba'al—please."

"Are you prepared to host a God?" He pushed the symbiote closer, his smile near-maniacal, his tone sing-song, childlike, and disturbed.

But the Colonel somehow managed to twist herself away anew, and as the Goa'uld stepped clear of the tumult, the guards grappled with her, trying to secure her again into the proper position.

Glinda looked about wildly—searching through the jungle of shelving partitions and supports across the corridor for something—anything—that would be useful. But there were only books—binders and notebooks, and a few markers and pencils. And although at one point in her life she'd subscribed to the notion that the pen was mightier than the sword, she hardly believed that throwing writing implements across the room would solve anything in this particular circumstance.

She'd recognized Jenkins, Carl, and Barry as the men who grappled with the Colonel. From where she crouched on the floor she could also see the dark-head of the Ba'al clone, and the balding pate of the Doctor Lee Goa'uld. Counting mentally, she figured that left three unknowns—Phil, the still unnamed Growly, and Whiny Dave. And the real Doctor Lee had to be around somewhere.

And of course, the General and Daniel, and the unknown quantity that was their Ba'al.

Where were they? She searched, up and around, then crawled awkwardly on three limbs into the corridor, her meat tenderizer held at the ready as she skittered across the threshold of the stall and out onto the smooth wood of the barn itself.

A faint thud off to the right had her leaning back to peer into the passageway around the corner, but she could see nothing pertinent—shadows, perhaps, if she strained—but nothing obviously the source of the noise.

Another rough moan from the Colonel forced Glinda's attention back to the far side of the laboratory, where Jenkins had body-checked Sam back into submission. The Goa'uld Doctor Lee took another step closer.

"Brother." The cloned Ba'al's voice rose across the laboratory's expanse, calm, almost bored. He sat on an office chair lazily, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. "Trying to implant the symbiote while she still struggles might cause it harm. Perhaps we should secure her using something more reliable than these humans."

"It will only take a moment." Stopping, Doctor Lee's clone turned his attention towards the other alien. His pasty face radiated excitement. "Just a moment."

"You delay too long. I grow impatient." Standing, he crossed to the dais that held the sarcophagus, running a hand along its length. "Either implant the symbiote or do not. Stop salivating at the prospect. It exposes you as the weakling you are."

"Hold her!" Cheeks ruddy, the Goa'uld let out a growl that spurred Jenkins to give another sharp jerk at the Colonel's braid.

"She's ready, sir."

Glinda looked down, tearing her eyes away from the atrocity about to take place. Wood floor—steel legs—papers and books stacked the shelf in front of her, and cords—everywhere electrical wiring— and nothing else. Nothing! She looked up. The Goa'uld had neared Sam again—his hands reaching out as the symbiote flailed its head and tail.

"We've got her, sir." Jenkins spoke—his voice gritty with frustration. "Do it now, if you're going to do it at all."

Frantic, Glinda searched between the fixtures for sign of the General, Daniel, or the other Goa'uld. She heard Sam cry out—heard her plead—and then heard the hissing begin again, saw the Doctor Lee clone's eyes heavy, half-lidded, as he placed the parasite to her skin.

Glinda didn't think—she couldn't. Blind reaction ruled her as she raised her arm and brought the meat tenderizer down on the steel support of a shelf. The recoil of the blow sent her floundering backwards, the reverberations exaggerated in the close quarters of the corridor. Landing hard against the wall behind her, Glinda stood stock still, breathing shallowly, the kitchen utensil held before her like Excalibur.

The Doctor Lee twin whirled towards the noise, his face reddened, his eyes wild. As the sound faded, he growled, his nostrils flaring wide. "What was that?"

Jenkins spoke without releasing his grip on the Colonel. "How should I know?"

Ba'al reached into a shallow storage cubby and withdrew a zat gun. Fingering it open, he turned, scanning the room, his sharp gaze seeming to penetrate the shelving and the corridor beyond. "Show yourself!" He took a step closer to the dais, turning in a slow circle. "I command you to make yourself known!"

But doing anything at all seemed quite beyond Glinda—she could merely stand, digging her bare toes into the wood grain of the flooring, forcing herself to keep breathing. The handle of her weapon felt warm, and hard, and comforting, and she gripped it even more tightly as if she could transfer some of its steel into her own spine.

"Phil—go find whatever that was." This from Ba'al—his voice indolent, nearly bored. "Don't bother bringing it back—just dispose of it."

A sound of assent, a rustling noise, and then the large, cumbersome body of the guard arose from where he'd been lounging in a corner of the laboratory. Glinda heard him rather than saw him—boots on the wood, the rough shush of jeans and flannel. She heard a series of hard clacks, and knew that he'd readied a weapon of some sort.

"Come on, Fitch."

"Why me?" Growly. His voice seemed to come from further away.

Glinda tried to shrink into the wall, pulling her limbs in towards herself.

"Just go!" The Bill clone's voice thundered.

Glinda flinched, glancing wildly first to one side and then the other, searching through the steel cage for a hint of which way Phil and Fitch would go first. So that she would know which way to run.

Their footsteps sounding as sullen as had their voices, they trudged towards the opening between cabinets, and Glinda took several steps to her right, her entire being prepared to flee. She saw them disappear between two large units, saw their shadows on the wide, double doors at the front of the barn to her right. Turning to flee, she stopped short at the sight of a brace of shadows coming around the opposite way. Trapped, with only the meat tenderizer clutched in her trembling hands, she could do nothing but wait.

Phil turned the corner and moved down that side of the corridor. He held a handgun before him, steadied with one hand cupped under the other. Fitch followed closely behind, quickly drawing abreast of his comrade. Glinda scuttled further sideways, splitting her attention between the dubious shadows to her right and the known entities coming down from the corridor on her left.

Precisely nowhere remained for her to flee. Her make-shift weapon faltered a bit, even as she grappled with her courage. She firmed her chin, and straightened her shoulders. Summoning up her dignity, she struggled not to release the pitiful whimper that had trapped itself in her throat. Her green eyes shone bright, excited, and terrified, her breath coming in little inadequate pants.

Fitch came to the corner first, peering sideways, instantly recognizing her. With a finger, he raised the head of his zat, his eyes widening even as his mouth spread into a coarse grin. "Well, what do we have here? It's nothing but that pain-in-the-butt old lady. Stand real still, honey, and we'll make it quick."

"I'll do it." Phil drew a bead, his face behind the bandages ecstatic. "I owe her one, anyway." He lowered his weapon, aiming it directly at her heart.

It would be fast—Glinda wanted to close her eyes, but couldn't bring herself to demonstrate such cowardice. Her focus was drawn instead to Phil's thick finger, to where the skin on his knuckle stretched as the digit tightened on the trigger. He exhaled, and smiled as he squeezed—she could see a fine sheen of spittle on his lower lip and vaguely thought it fitting that a man of his questionable caliber would drool—

A loud pop filled the corridor, but she didn't feel pain. She dumbly glanced downward, to her grimy, torn, and bedraggled blouse, but no bullet hole marred the fabric, no blood seeped between the buttons. Heart beating in its frenetic rhythm, he looked back up at the guard, and gasped as she watched Phil heave forward and then fall, eerily—slowly—his mouth frozen into a small "o", his eyes wide—unseeing.

Fitch turned swiftly, an impulsive move of his finger firing the zat wildly. The blue beam caught a steel bar on a shelf and ricocheted uselessly away. Glinda watched his body twist, saw him make a decision. And then, faster than she'd imagined possible, Growly pivoted in the close space and aimed the zat in the direction from which the gunshot had originated.

She heard a gruff shout—not from Fitch, but from further away—and the shuffle of quick feet. And then Fitch's roar of anger as he braced to fire the alien beam again. And Glinda knew that whomever—Daniel? The General?—was at the other end of that corridor was the new target. She considered her options for a beat, and then took three giant steps forward, swinging the kitchen implement high—hoping to buy at least a little time for what she desperately hoped was one of the good guys.

Even as experienced as she was for the feel and noise of crunching bone, it still sickened her. The head of her weapon hit Fitch on the back of the skull, right above his neck, and he plummeted to the wood floor of the barn without another sound.

She felt a rough hand grasp her arm, and turned, automatically lashing out again with her weapon. But a strong hand caught the mallet and stopped its wild motion, lowering it, and then twisting it out of her grip. Frantic, Glinda surged to retrieve it, but found herself engulfed by the newcomer instead, her movements stilled by a solid body, a voice familiar in her ear.

"Pinky!" The whisper seemed huge in the close confines of the corridor, known and wonderful. "Glinda. It's me."

She stilled, forcing herself to focus on him. The General relaxed slightly, holding her tightly with one hand while gripping his Winchester with the other. Gradually, he released her, his dark, fierce eyes searching hers as he reached to the side and deposited the meat tenderizer on a shelf. One of his brows ticked upwards, and she somehow understood him—knew what he asked of her.

Calm. She clung to the notion of composure, willing it to override fear, and hatred, and disgust.

Glinda took a deep breath, then looked behind her, across the fallen forms of the two men to where Daniel stood on the far end of the corridor, his Glock glinting ebony in the diffused sunlight. The archaeologist nodded at the General, and O'Neill moved ahead, shouldering past her, stepping unfazed over the bodies on the floor as he moved past the outer perimeter.

Trailing him, she paused as a glint of odd bluish-gray caught her eye, and she bent automatically to retrieve the object from where it lay partially beneath a cabinet. She stood, feeling Daniel's focus on her, and held up the zat gun, ridiculously pleased when he smiled, raising his brows in an approving salute.

"Phil? Fitch? What's going on?" Jenkins called out, his enunciation clipped, terse.

In the corridor, O'Neill threw a concise string of hand signals towards Daniel, who turned smartly and disappeared down the far passageway. The General held the shotgun loose against his body as he advanced cautiously to the opening in the cabinetry that led into the inner sanctum of the lab.

"Phil—Fitch. Dammit. Answer me!"

"I'm afraid they're unavailable at this time." From the other side of the barn, Daniel's tone sounded conversational, casual, as if he were recording a new outgoing salutation on his answering machine. "You can leave a message, but I'm fairly certain they won't call back."

"Who are you?" This wasn't Jenkins—the cloned Doctor Lee spoke now, the timbre of his voice changing into the odd, recognizable resonance common to his species.

"Um—you first." Daniel sounded further away—he was on the move. Buying time.

Glinda could hear people shuttling back and forth inside the lab, and the distinct sound of a gun being cocked echoed in the cavernous room. A shout, a scuffle, and then a thud—a body hitting a hard surface? Snarled orders, and then a screech—serpentine—alien—furious.

Chilling.

And another moan—feminine, and pained. Glinda's eyelids flitted shut, even as her stomach recoiled.

"O'Neill!" Louder, this tone sounded more human—more amused than angry. "We don't want to hurt anyone. We only want this device finished. And your beloved is being spectacularly stubborn about it."

"That's because she can't do it." The General had stopped behind a cupboard unit at the lab's point of entry. Raising his shotgun, he butted the weapon to his shoulder and sighted between the unit and a bank of shelves, stepping infinitesimally closer to the inner sanctum of the lab. Even from her position behind him, Glinda could see his jaw clench, and then relax. She watched as his finger tightened on the trigger.

"You lie." Ba'al again—more urgent this time. "It is fortunate that my brother has a way of circumventing that issue."

"Don't do it, Ba'al." Low, intense, the General's words carried deadly intent in them.

In the lab, the Ba'al clone choked out a laugh. "I would love to hear you beg again, General. Only first hand, this time, instead of only in my memory."

"Keep wishing." The General bent and peered through the shelving, scanning the interior before standing upright again. Taking a step away from the units, he motioned for Glinda to stay put before butting his weapon to his shoulder and sighting down the barrel. "You and I both know that's not going to happen."

"You would plead for the life of your wife, would you not?"

O'Neill didn't answer, he merely refit his finger to the trigger, his lips thinned.

"Just as you would beg for the life of your child." The cloned Doctor Lee, again, this time, mania thick in his lilting, sing-song cadence. "This child with your genes. The Ancient genes. So many possibilities. And just an implantation away."

"Let her go, Ba'al—both of you. You know you won't get out of here alive."

"You are outnumbered, General." The Ba'al clone smiled, hands outspread, his face impassive. "Our men surround this laboratory."

"Yes, well." The General didn't smile back—his lips were hard, and colorless. "You keep thinking those happy thoughts, if it makes you feel better."

"Phil and Fitch?" Jenkins spat the names. "You killed them?"

"Believe what you want." The Winchester gleamed as he shifted behind the cabinet.

"There is only one of you." Doctor Lee's twin gestured with the hand holding the symbiote.

"Two." Ba'al corrected his brother. "I heard Daniel Jackson, as well. Three if you count the old woman."

"So? What's your point?"

"So, you see we are at an impasse." One dark, well-groomed brow rose as he waved a hand around the lab. "You cannot shoot all of us at once, and certainly not before my brother can accomplish his wish to—shall we say—expand our family."

As if on cue, the snake hissed.

"Are you growing impatient, my brother?" Between the books, Glinda watched as the stout Goa'uld held the creature up, gazing affectionately at its thrashing form. "The first host is the most memorable."

Glinda crouched low and peered through steel support poles of a cabinet. In the lab, the alien Doctor Lee and Barry stood in an odd tableau, the Colonel at their feet. Her hands had been secured behind her somehow—Glinda suspected more of those confounded zip ties. And pressed to her temple, looming obscene and malevolent, Barry held a pistol.

And still squirming in the pudgy Goa'uld's grasp, the symbiote strained towards the woman below, its tongue undulating within its gaping mouth .

The other clone stood on the other side of the dais, zat in hand, an odd smile on his face. To the Goa'uld's right, his hands zipped tightly before him, knelt the real Doctor Lee.

The sweaty, wan version of the Doctor stepped forward, his eyes fastened on the soft, white flesh of the Colonel's throat. His thick lips curling upward in cruel bliss, he extended his arm, and the snake widened its mouth anew—its fangs glistening in the bright light from above.

And as if on cue, O'Neill acted. Moving quickly—with an efficient kind of grace that surprised his secretary—he stepped from the corridor into the lab. Every motion concise, precise, he strode with a determined sort of impatience that Glinda hardly recognized. She'd read about this side of him—known it existed, but had discounted it, in a way, as being too long ago, too far removed from his position at the Pentagon.

But this was more natural for him—far more so than the meetings and the suits and the memos. Action—pure action—purposeful action—he breathed it as she breathed order and organization. It flowed through his blood as a nutrient for the man he was.

"If I were you all, I would step away from the lady." Supernaturally serene, O'Neill's voice sounded slightly disembodied—even, and distinct. Dangerous. Glinda watched as a peculiar tranquility settled over him, and despite the fact that she knew the man, found that her body trembled. "And put that snake somewhere else."

"You are in no position to make demands."

"Oh. But I am."

Glinda drew in a quick breath as the Colonel looked up—her face abused, her hair a painful-looking snarl at her nape, dried blood on her lip and temple. But those azure eyes—clear and intent—radiated fury rather than pain. Resolve rather than despair. Sam searched her husband's face briefly before lowering her head again, and her body's subtle shift told Glinda that something had passed between them—some understanding that needed no words.

The balding clone growled and thrust the symbiote downward, towards the Colonel's neck. With a sharp grunt, Sam flung herself to her side, knocking the pistol out of the guard's grip. Spinning on her hip, she thrust upward with her bound feet, catching Barry fully in his groin. He collapsed into a heap, his body stiffening in pain, and Sam spun around again, her heels catching him in his throat. His body skidded into a shelf, colliding hard, and falling still.

The Goa'uld screamed, his arm twisting upwards in an obvious effort to protect the symbiote.

A familiar chuck filled the air, followed by a deafening roar. Glinda flinched, gasping, yanking her attention from the Colonel just in time to see the Goa'uld's hand disappear in a haze of red, his body thrown backwards into a steel shelving unit.

The cloned Doctor Lee screamed, clutching his mangled arm, his face mottled with his own blood, and a pale bluish tinge that had to have burst out of the decimated symbiote. The General hesitated only a beat before firing again, and the mutiliated alien fell to the ground, silent.

"Carter! Get out of there!"

"I'm trying!" And only then did Glinda notice the Colonel, struggling to rise. Off-center anyway, her body wouldn't cooperate. She could only push herself out of the fray, and even then the progress was slow.

"Daniel!"

"A little busy, Jack!"

"Get un-busy!" He shifted his focus to the other Goa'uld, to the zat being raised in his direction.

Glinda could hear sounds of a struggle further away—outside of the laboratory—men grunting—the exchange of blows. And then a single gunshot. She looked around, feeling slightly hysterical, and completely useless.

Barry lay still on the floor, immobile. Sam still struggled to rise, and had managed to push herself out of the main area, her feet making a glistening trail in the muck that spattered the floor.

The other Goa'uld raised his zat, aiming at the General. He fired, and missed, and then dodged when O'Neill turned the Winchester in his direction. The General cocked his shotgun again, and leveled it. The barrel steadied, and Glinda saw his jaw tighten, saw tendons and bones in the back of his hand work as he prepared to fire.

She looked away—not knowing why—feeling too cowardly to watch the other Goa'uld die, perhaps. She'd seen death, but not through such violence. And it was too much—too close, too fierce, too deserved, too sure. And there she crouched, in the corridor, doing nothing but watch—feeling hopelessly old and cowardly.

Drawing herself upright, she took a step backward, only to stop as she felt something press into the space between her shoulder blades. Hard, cylindrical, she knew what it was even before the voice rose from behind her.

"I've got her, boss!"

Glinda's eyes closed, and her shoulders drooped, even as her heart thudded to a halt.

Jenkins.

"Bring her to me." Glinda could hear triumph in the Goa'uld's tone. "Shoot me, General O'Neill, and you kill your secretary, too."

The guard grabbed her shoulder and manhandled her around to face him. She tried to move the hand holding the zat to her back, intent upon hiding the weapon, but Jenkins caught the movement and reached out, his pistol still pointing at her chest, and wrested the alien gun from her grip. He snorted as he glanced at it, then shoved it into the front of his pants. "And you looked like such a nice little old lady."

Narrowing her eyes at the hooligan, Glinda squared her chin. "Give me your gun, and I'll show you how nice I can be."

Jenkins grinned, and then shoved her back around and through the opening into the laboratory.

It was a standoff.

The General stood with his weapon trained on the Ba'al clone, the Colonel still lay prone on the floor. Barry slouched, still unconscious, only a few feet away from the mangled corpse of the alien form of Doctor Lee. The remaining Ba'al stood, his zat pointed at Sam.

Jenkins stopped Glinda just behind the General. Gun still pointed at her, he withdrew the zat and opened it, then lowered it to aim at the Colonel. "Which one goes first, boss?"

"The old one."

Glinda felt Jenkins' shrug rather than saw it. "Your call."

"So you see, General. You have done me a favor, here."

O'Neill didn't speak, and Glinda couldn't see as much as a hair on him flicker.

Ba'al moved forward, running his tongue along his lips. "You have rid me of some rather excess baggage. I must remember to thank you before you die."

But O'Neill focused on the Goa'uld's motions rather than his words. "Stop walking, Ba'al."

"You are surrounded. Your wife is useless, Doctor Lee has been contained, and Jenkins has your secretary. Who else do you believe will come and save you?" His arrogant shrug accompanied a face that exuded victory. "Surely not the archaeologist?"

"Shut up, Ba'al."

"Or what? You'll shoot me with your gun?"

"Something like that."

"But you won't be able to save your wife. Jenkins has her quite in his sights. Kill me, and you kill her."

Glinda scanned the scene, her spirit bleak. The Colonel had stopped straining against her bonds, and lay still, perhaps conserving her strength. Doctor Lee couldn't seem to keep his eyes off his twin—dead in the far corner. Even if he weren't completely obsessed with the sight, his bound hands and feet would render him more incapable than the Colonel. And Daniel—Glinda couldn't hold out hope there. She'd heard the gun shot—knew that the casualty could as easily have been Daniel as it could have been the villain.

Just because you were the good guy didn't mean that you could always save the day.

She turned a more critical eye towards the group—and realized that she was the one unknown factor. She remained unbound and able to move. The Colonel had been disabled—her abilities too familiar to allow her freedom. Doctor Lee, bound as he was, had obviously at one point posed a threat, and had been neutralized. The General now stood in the center of a quandary—and there were two more men out there—Carl, and Whiny Dave.

A shadow passed on the outside of the far bank of shelves, and Glinda strained to make it out, but couldn't. She glared sideways at Jenkins, and then looked back at the shadow as it progressed along the corridor, and stopped at the entrance opposite the one through which she'd just entered.

She lowered her head and watched through her eyelashes as the figure leaned forward just enough to peek into the room. And then she felt her heart leap as she recognized Daniel.

If the General had seen him, he didn't indicate it. The Winchester never wavered from its aim—his finger never shifted from the trigger. His entire concentration remained on the Goa'uld.

Ba'al, however, took another step towards the sarcophagus. "And so you see, O'Neill. You cannot win this."

"Try me."

Glinda watched as Daniel stepped closer to the entry way. Saw him stop and take in the scene, then frown. Too many variables. Too much possibility for disaster. But to do nothing—the bile rose in the back of Glinda's throat.

She watched as Daniel edged ever closer, his gun held low. From her position on the far side of the guard, she could see the General's friend. She doubted that Jenkins could. And if he could, he'd indicated nothing.

And that little kick happened again—that tiny bit of excitement that came in situations like these. Like the sudden rush that accompanied the stopping of one's car just in time—the surge that came with seeing the spider before stepping on it. She felt her blood start to pulse as she contemplated action—rifling through, and then sorting various scenarios in her head.

"Try you? Oh, I will." Ba'al smoothed down his beard again. "Perhaps I will recreate a certain room just for you. With a table full of vials and knives. Will that try you enough?"

Daniel, looking through the shelving, caught Glinda's eye. With a deliberate nod to her, he indicated the guard. Glinda glanced at Jenkins, at his inadequate stance—at his attention, divided as it was between herself and the Colonel. Shifting slightly, she put herself into position, achieving the proper balance, reviewing in her mind the words of the instructor.

With a slight nod, Daniel raised his gun, stepping into the lab even as he fired low, his bullet sinking into the Goa'uld's thigh.

Ba'al roared, swiveling around, finding Daniel even as he repositioned the zat. Seeing her opportunity, Glinda stepped backwards slightly, balancing herself on her right leg, while thrusting up and out with her left in the one and only kick she'd ever felt competent delivering during all those karate classes at the senior center.

The sole of her foot impacted solidly with Jenkins' knee, and he crumpled sideways, losing hold of the gun in his surprise. It skittered across the floor, towards the Colonel, and Glinda prayed that Sam could recover it.

Behind her, she heard the ominous schucking sound of the General racking another round just before simultaneous explosions filled the close space.

Glinda wanted to turn—wanted to see if the threat had been vanquished, but instead could only watch in a fascinated kind of dread as Jenkins righted himself. Swinging his left hand around, the alien weapon malevolent in his grip, he found her again. Resetting her feet, she posed to strike once more, but his zat blast found Glinda first, and she was engulfed in the blue stream of eerie light.

She felt strangely bouyant for a second—as if every fiber of her form were on fire. Pain and shock radiated around her, and she felt her mind numbing—her vision clouding from the outside in. Jenkins' face hovered over hers—as if in slow motion—his furied eyes narrowing as his mouth widened in a shout she couldn't hear.

And through the blackness that claimed her, she found herself staring into the evil little head of the alien weapon, Jenkins' finger caressing the trigger just beyond.

Then the finger on that trigger wrenched again, and, as the second wave of blue energy surrounded her, Glinda gave herself to the void.