Along Came a Turk


"Go after him," Reno tells Rude and Elena. "Make sure he's all right."

"Yes, Sir," Elena energetically responds while Rude starts silently on his way like he always does, and follows her.

"Good thing no one knows what the hell ya said, Princess," Reno mutters in Wutian while his partners make their way out to chase after Tseng. Then he grabs Yuffi by the arm and yanks her out of my grasp so he can look at the flowering bruise on her cheek and purposefully press on it, knowing that it's tender and probably knowing how hard Tseng hits from personal experience.

"Ouch!"

"Hurt?"

"Yes!"

"Good," he says, still speaking in her tongue before he pulls out a handkerchief and wipes at the small cut on her cheek.

"Ya know, somehow, I jus don't see the appropriate relation ta diggin that deep when all he did was comment on the fact that yer a tramp an ya look like a boy." Then he pushes her toward Tifa and mutters, "Cuz ya are and ya do."

Afterwards, he snickers and looks at Tifa while returning to the Midgarian tongue, "Keep an eye on her, would ya? Maybe make sure she cleans that cut properly too, so it don't get infected."

With a reluctant nod, Tifa guides Yuffi into the back while Reno watches them with his typical and conniving look, and I begin to wonder if it's just the way he looks before he turns to me and pulls a loose hair from my shoulder.

"Ya shed like a cat, Man," he tells me.

But he doesn't discard it. Instead, he runs it through his fingers as if he's comparing it to something. Then he drops himself to the chair he was standing near while letting the hair fall to the floor, and he lazily leans back as he scopes the tavern.

"Heh. Never fails… Pull out a few guns an ya've got the place all ta yerself."

After that, he stretches his legs out like he's planning to stay and he hangs his elbows over the back of the chair, looking awkward and uncomfortable. It makes him look like a flapbeat on strings as he sets his attention on the dirty ashtray in front of him and starts shaking his leg like it'll take his mind off of something.

"Thought it was a good idea ta get 'im out of the house," he mutters. "Been tryin ta get 'im out of his shell fer the last couple'a weeks now."

Then he tilts his head and confides as he tosses a large amount of gil on the table to compensate Tifa for her losses.

"He's been actin strange, like he's upset about somethin."

All the while, I'm wondering why Reno is telling me things of a private nature, and I'm wondering if I should be walking away, pretending that I don't care. But there's a problem. I can't seem to bring myself to move as the vulgar redhead clears his throat and leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

"Was 'is birthday today," he tells me, before he finally stands and lets out a retiring sigh and looks like he's trying to draw a reaction out of me.

I don't give him one though, and it doesn't register right away as I watch him lazily let his arms fall to his sides, until it sinks in that it was a year ago, exactly, that him and Elena were tortured by the remnants…

His birthday…

Then with a dry smirk, he walks over to the table and picks up an unfinished beer that didn't belong to him and guzzles it down like he'd been parched for days.

I'd ask him why he was telling me information that shouldn't be any of my business. But I don't want to feed into what I believe he already suspects by giving him a possible lead in and by possibly saying the wrong thing. Instead, I tell myself he's only playing by his motto. He's off duty right now and he doesn't have to be enemies or friends with anyone if he doesn't want to be, even if it's his orders. Nor does he have to play nicely with anyone either. It's all his choice when he's off the clock.

"Anyway, guess I should'a checked the guest list first, huh?" he says and snickers, not seeming to care that he might as well be talking to himself and making me wonder if he did check the guest list as he turns around and lazily leans against the door before scratching at his chest, "But how the fuck would I know somethin like this was gonna happen even if I did?"

After that, he snickers again and walks to the door while tapping his EMR on his shoulder.

"Well, take care, Man. Tell Tifa I'd apologize fer the incident in person, but I've got an emotionally wounded Turk ta tend ta. An I think he's gonna need a lotta compassion ta help 'im get over it..."

He almost looks as if he'd like to be the one to do it too, while I bite my tongue and lower my face into my mantle as he snidely continues with a further dig.

"Oh yeah, an like Tseng said, ya might wanna keep yer girlfriend on a tighter leash—fer her sake."

He smiles at me then, like the conniving rat that he is while I take note of the hidden innuendos that he's implying, and I remember Tseng telling me that he'd strayed from Sephiroth before, and the reason. And I literally feel myself burning up as a result.


"I caught word that he'd slept with one of the grunts from Soldier. So I figured I'd get even."

"Did you?"

"Yes."


It wasn't the best news I'd ever heard from him. But it wasn't the worst either. I think I was more disturbed by the fact that he never elaborated on what he did, and I'm suddenly regretting never asking.

And although my logic is telling me that he doesn't want the Turks seeing what state he was left in—never mind the rest of us—I can't seem to brush off the nagging voice that's telling me he thinks I'm with Yuffi now, and that he might suddenly not care anymore about what he does next. That is of course, if he's as bothered as I'm thinking he is and not just hoping, despite how twisted that hope may be.

But then again, I should also be questioning Reno's motives and asking myself why he was even hinting at whatever it was that he was hinting at, never mind the fact that I just realized that he was speaking to me in the Northern dialect of the Forgotten Capital and that I was answering him in the same language.

Whether it was because he didn't want Tifa and Yuffi overhearing him, or if he was trying to tell me something entirely different, remains a mystery though. Nor does it take precedence over the fact that I'm tracking him in hopes of getting to Tseng before he does—all promises to stay away suddenly forgotten.


"So, what did she say to him?" I hear Rude asking Reno as I creep passed the bald Turk's home and remain in the shadows.

"Dunno."

"Yes you do."

"All right… How 'bout… It ain't any of yer business then?"

"Mm," Rude mumbles before he sits back and removes his tie when Reno sits forward and drinks half of his beer in one gulp, "I knew I should've learned Wutian instead of Nibel."

"Ech. Wutian's overrated," Reno mutters before he sits back and Rude stretches his arms across the back of the sofa, relaxed and resting them behind Reno. Then they both unexpectedly jump when someone knocks on the door.

"Ya expectin company?"

"Elena?" Rude guesses, not appearing to be sure of it but willing to make the guess as he quickly sits forward, looking uncomfortable all the sudden while clasping his hands over his lap, "He might have kicked her out."

"Heh. Would'n put it passed 'im." Reno agrees as he stands and straightens out his shirt before nodding at Rude to go ahead and open the door, "'Course, it only means he's gonna be that much worse ta deal with when he finally decides ta come back out."

"No shit," Rude responds before he opens the door to a distracted-looking Elena.

"He said he was fine," she blankly says before she mindlessly walks in and takes Reno's beer from his hand to take a drink and reluctantly sighs. "He told me he wanted to take a bath and that he'd prefer to do it alone."

"So you left?" Rude asks while I start to back farther into the shadows, deciding that I've gotten all the information I'm ever going to get from those three, never mind the fact that it's all I need.

"What the hell else was I going to do?"


All I can do is thank whatever fates there may be when I come to discover that he still hasn't fixed the latch on his bedroom window as I approach. And I hesitantly clench my teeth, knowing I'm probably the last person he wants to see right now. But unfortunately, he's the only person that I want to see right now and I carefully open the window before creeping over to his bed to sit on the edge, quietly waiting for him to come out of his bathroom.

I've spent a long enough time with him to know that he doesn't like being bothered when he's in there. I'm already taking a risk by sitting on his bed since I know how he feels about surprises, and I wind up focussing on a particular moment involving something similar not that long ago.


"What the hell did you do that for?"

"For Leviathan's sake, Vince. It's only a flesh wound. Besides, you heal faster than anything that breathes."

"That's not the point."

"If you don't like it? Then quit barging in on me like that."

"Barging in on you…? It sounded like you fell."

"I did. But it still doesn't change the fact that I've spent several years with people trying to kill me at every opportunity they get. If you surprise me, I react. Now quit taking it so personally."


Personally… I think to myself, repeating it in my head while I sit here and anticipate what he's going to do when he comes out, almost like a part of me lives for it. Or maybe it's the familiar scent of his surroundings that gets to me, making me nostalgic over his faults that I no longer find fault in.

The subtle aroma of lavender, his cologne that lingers in the air, and the fact that I know where he keeps every one of his blades makes me feel like I'm where I belong and where I want to be. And I can only hope that he wants me to be here too, although I'm certain he feels otherwise.

And it takes me a moment to resurface from the depths I always fall into before I realize that he's already come out of the bathroom. He's standing under the frame of the doorway, silently hesitating and toying with the blade I would have expected him to throw at me by now. But he hasn't yet, and he's clutching to the collar of his robe like he's in the presence of a stranger, holding it closed like he always does and never getting used to the idea that he's less than perfect now.

"Vince," he says, almost under his breath, cold and unfeeling and as if he was waiting for me to look up and acknowledge him before he allowed himself to acknowledge me.

"Tseng."

"If you're here because you're unnecessarily worried about me, what I might do, or what I might be thinking about you… and…"

For a moment, he awkwardly pauses. Though he hides his uncertainty well when he adds that, "You're wrong."

Then he places the blade flat on the surface of his dresser, almost like he's trying to be humble.

I know, I think, not really agreeing but doing it habitually. I'm always wrong, and no one ever needs to worry about him because he can take care of himself. Though inwardly, he knows that I'm the one who always thinks he's the one who's wrong, and I thoughtlessly mutter out, "It's not what you think."

"Don't waste your unnecessary breath," he says, clinically, and knowing that I continue to breathe even though I don't need to as he looks toward the living room through his open door, "You don't need to explain yourself."

Then he nods and looks down as if he's already made up his mind, believing what he concluded from the start.

He says it like there's nothing I can say that can persuade him from his conviction before he mutters while walking to the front of his dresser to pull out his night clothes and reluctantly adds, "Besides, I must admit that she seems more your type than I ever was… and she's quite pretty."

With a futile feeling over the fact that he's trying to pretend that he's not affected and even approves, I let out a heavy breath and get up before I find myself standing behind him.

"Quit being so difficult," I tell him, husky and low as I take a chance and put my arms around his waist.

"Are you sure you want to be touching me after what your girlfriend so graciously pointed out?"

"She's not my girlfriend," I tell him before I rest my chin on his shoulder and debate on asking what I wind up asking anyway. "Is it true?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," I tell him, pulling him closer and losing myself in the familiar and welcome scents that he carries and the fact that he isn't pushing me away. Though I suspect a part of him wants to while I take another chance and attempt to tease him in hopes that it will lighten his mood, "None of it would change the fact that you're already intolerable."

With a mild snort, he sets his nightshirt onto the surface of his dresser and tilts his head, attempting to look at me.

"She was a dancer, you know… my mother," he says as a fact while his eyes wander over my own in search for a reaction. "A respectable one."

Then he smiles. Though it's not a happy smile, and he turns around in my arms to grab my hand when he puts his other arm around my waist.

"She taught me."

Then he rests his head on my shoulder and wonders, "Perhaps it's time I finally ask you if you dance."

"I never learned," I tell him before I sense him smiling again as he starts to subtly sway us both.

"I suppose I'll have to lead then."

After that, he adjusts himself so he can look at me with that devilish glint of his, passing through his eyes, and he falsely snickers, seeming less genuine than he's trying to pretend to be.

I can't help but sigh over the matter, realizing that Yuffi must have struck a nerve that ran too deep in Tseng as he moves a little less subtly, with more rhythm, and takes me unknowingly into the open area between his bed and his dresser. I'd comment on the fact that he's probably happy to finally find something I'll let him lead in. But it hardly seems appropriate, and I respond by doing my best to awkwardly play along with his wishes, telling myself that maybe he deserves it this time.

"She was part of a show," he says, distantly, before he slightly dips me, testing to see how far he can go with me. "They would travel, attempting to spread Wutian culture throughout the world…" With a roll to his eyes at the mention of Wutai, he wryly smirks and jerks me closer, testing me again and sarcastically stating, "To gain esteem, I suppose."

After that, he steps back and stares at my cloak.

"Of course, it was nothing more than entertainment, really."

Then he feathers down my shoulders as if he's brushing dust off of me and mumbles as if he's in a daze, "Beautiful girls… Beautiful boys… Drunken audiences…"

He smirks then, wryly, and steps back while grabbing near the neck of his robe to ensure that it stays closed when he sourly mutters as he returns to his dresser, "You know how it goes."

"Gongaga," Is the best I can seem to come up with as the word stupidly spills from my mouth and I stand there, not knowing what's going through his mind as he takes the bottoms to his pyjamas from his dresser and places the shirt on top of them before taking a step toward his bathroom.

"Is where it all started," he adds.

Then he pauses with his back to me and picks at a loose thread on the nightclothes in his arms.

"He broke into her room and beat her within an inch of her life… broke her legs, her back, and her left arm," he tells me while he continues to casually pick at his clothes. Then he mutters with a sigh, knowing that there's nothing he could have done since he didn't exist then. "She was in a wheelchair for several years after that… no longer able to dance."

That's why she limped, I recall, too cautious to state my observations on her crippled state when he first brought me to his home, and I hesitate when I wonder if my desire to hold him is too premature.

"They wanted her to abort the child, telling her no good could come from keeping it… They viewed it as a bad omen."

With a dry snort, almost like he agrees on some level, he slicks his hair back and straightens up as if he needs to regain his false dignity.

"She's a stubborn woman though…" he adds. "She was driven out of town by her own people, exiled for her decision to keep it."

Torn between the decision to tell him I agree with her decision or to tell him that they were right with no intention other than playful mockery, I stay silent and quietly remove my gauntlet and gloves. Then I remove the armour from my boots and ignore him when he notices while quirking his brow.

"I don't recall saying you could stay here, Vince."

"I don't recall asking," I detachedly retort while I continue to remove my shoes, "Nor do I recall saying you could call me Vince."

Whether it's a good argument or not, I don't really care, and I figure I'll add it anyway. Maybe a part of me hopes it will give me a head start if I wind up needing it. But all he does is stare at me, unreadable as ever, despite whatever heart-to-heart he was attempting to have a moment ago.

"Get out."

"Get out?" I repeat, saying it like the idea is absurd before I start unbuckling my cloak and kick my boots off. "You can do better than that."

I know he can do better than that. He's the most degrading person that I know when it comes to trying to achieve results. He's verbally cruel when he doesn't get his way or when he thinks it will help him to get his way faster, and he's physically lashing as a last resort. Part of me wonders if I hunger for it since I seem to like driving him to the edge to see what he'll do next, and part of me wonders if he hungers for it as well, despite his frustrations since he always seems to invite me back as if he wants more.

But he just stands there, still, mindlessly petting his pyjamas with the tips of his fingers as if he's holding a black cat in his arms, and he watches me kick my boots away from my feet while throwing my cloak onto his bed.

"I'd say that you've lost your mind," he tells me, statuesque and stoic as always, and running his eyes over me, deceiving anything cold or insulting that he might be saying. "But I believe that's common knowledge."

I only nod at him, lowering my head like I couldn't agree more. Son of a rapist, father of a lost daughter, kidnapper and con artist, they're contradictions that never seem to end with him. He could be the devil for all I care at this point—and I'm still not ruling that one out, as I grab him by the waist and move him against the wall because none of it really matters anyway.

Like him, I was damned from the day I was born, and no more harm can possibly be done to me by playing with the burning coals that he represents. At least, that's what I tell myself as I grab his jaw and he squirms a little, clinging to his pyjamas and playing hard to get like he always does—refusing to admit that there might be something in front of him that he wants.

But he always betrays himself, each time, by those softening eyes that hunger for something he can never satiate, despite how much he continues to try to convince us both that he's not what I want, and although I firmly believe that I'm not the one that he wants. I know I'm everything that he tries to run away from. I may even be too similar to Sephiroth in ways that keep his memories alive, and if there was a chance I could change it, I probably would.

I can't stay away from him though. I tried for both of us. But seeing him again awakened something dead in me, and the confusion that he relentlessly stirs in me comes flooding back. And when my tongue finds refuge against the weakening struggle of his own, he manages to somehow mutter something about Yuffi again—something about the fact that I should get back to her so she doesn't worry.

"Stop it," I mumble while I slide my hand through the opening of his robe and run my tongue along his slender neck, always clean, always smooth, always scented, and never tasting like that scent.

"Stop what?" he breathes out. "I'm not gullible enough to believe that she wasn't hanging off of you like you belonged to her."

Then he pushes me away and I take note of the fact that he does it like he doesn't really want to.

"She's irritating," I mutter, staring at nothing all the sudden and not even paying attention to what I'm saying, "even as a replacement for you."

Then I turn my attention to him and focus on his eyes, deep enough to get lost in and hypnotic enough to never find my way out again.

And I wonder what kind of trap he is all the sudden, if he is one, and I ask almost like it's part of a conversation we were already having, "Have you always attracted straight men?"

"Pardon?" he asks, unable to pretend that the question doesn't affect him. But mostly because he's confused by it while I continue to study his features, contrasts, and colouring. He's almost black and white, monochrome, as if he was drawn in charcoals by an expert.

"You said your first lover…" I start, remembering how other men have turned to look at him whenever he walks by them. It's been like that during all the time I'd been with him, "was straight."

"He was," he answers as he pulls his robe closed and holds his pyjamas closer to his body, like he's suddenly feeling exposed. Then he looks uncomfortable and snidely points out, irritated all the sudden, "But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

And it makes me wonder if there's any relevance to it at all while I take another look at him and I'm reminded of the dolls my mother used to make.

"It doesn't…" I mutter, shaking my head just enough to hope that he won't notice how my mind is wandering, and I refrain from telling him that he looks like what he would probably call a mongrel's doll, despite the compliment that I believe it to be.

The thought almost makes me feel like smiling over the fact that he's a fallible prick, and in an attempt to hide the fact that I'm mentally wandering off like I always do, I set my attention on the picture sitting on his dresser. It's of him and his mother, a happier day, and he has his arm around her waist, supporting her, I realize, and I find myself moving up to him again, despite his caution, and placing my arm around his waist in the same manner while I carefully pull his nightclothes from his grip and place them back on his dresser.

"When did she start walking?" I ask, hoping to keep my mind from wandering too far and too suspiciously over what makes him attractive and what keeps him alive, and I ignore the fact that he hasn't been oblivious to my wandering mind by the fact that he's not accepting me very willingly.

He's cautious and I can't say that I blame him.

"Pardon?"

"Your mother," I tell him, motioning my head toward the picture of him, hair in a high pony tail, adoring concern in his eyes, and I think of how much he really looks like something that was created by another's hand. And if it wasn't for the scars and the beginnings of aging lines, I might even believe it.

With a quirk to his brow, he follows my gaze and rests his head against the wall.

"When I was young, I used to urge her to get up," he says as if he's mentally travelling back in time and he frowns. "I didn't understand things then, and I think she felt guilty that she couldn't meet my demands."

Then he sighs and picks up the picture, tilting it so he can study parts of it that help him reflect better, "It was only the two of us, and she would always go out of her way to make sure that we had everything we needed."

With a slight admiration for his mother's strength and independence, and for Tseng's loyalty toward her, I find myself moving closer and just holding him, taking some kind of comfort in the sound of his heart beating and the fact that it does beat. He always turns more human when he thinks of her or talks about her, and I always find myself wanting to hang onto that part of him for as long as I can.

He smiles at something then, and he puts the picture back before returning my hold by sliding his arms under mine and resting his head on my shoulder.

"She told me that it was because of me that she learned how to walk again," he breathes out. Then he tightens his grip and pulls me with him as he leans his back toward the wall. "She said that I gave her a reason."

I assume it's among the reasons he lies to her, contradictory shame and guilt, I decide to leave it at that and I place the palm of my hand against the side of his cheek when he rests his head against the wall again, and he mutters with a sleepy look in his eyes, "What is it about you?"

"I'd tell you if I knew," I cockily answer, studying him as intently as he's studying me.

"You must be the only person alive…" he starts, before he pauses, probably wondering what I think he's wondering—if I am alive. Then he shakes it off and pushes my headscarf up a bit, "that's managed to pick me apart in the short time that you've been around me."

"That's because I know the secret," I teasingly tell him while I move my hand to his shoulder and start massaging it with a light touch.

"Mmm… What's that?"

"You talk when you're being pampered," I tell him, moving close enough to whisper it into his ear and knowing from experience that he turns soft whenever there's a massage involved, or the promise of one coming his way.

"A secret I should keep from my enemies…" he playfully responds, and he closes his eyes while moving his head to the side to encourage me to keep going when he wryly adds, "A secret I probably should have kept from you as well."

"Hm," I snort, and I move closer to brush my mouth along his jaw-line before I curl my fingers into the back of his head and whisper into his ear, breathing hot along the edge, "I think you like having someone know."

"Just not you," he mutters, whispering back as he unconsciously responds by brushing his cheek against mine and then pulling my earlobe into his teeth, lightly nibbling.

"Then who?" I ask, firmly crawling my fingertips along his back, downward, and swimming dizzily into his satisfied moans from the pressure.

"Anyone but you."

"I don't believe you," I tell him, immediately cutting him off from anything else he might say by sealing his mouth with my own and moving my hand back to the front of his robe. Again, not caring who he is, what he is, or where he comes from, and letting myself fall back into the lure of whatever he entices me with, only for him to try to ruin it like he always does.

Or, at the very least, he tries.

"Go down on me."

He says it every time, sometimes his words are more vulgar like he wants to turn me off, and other times it's more pleading, like now, stating that he really does want me to do it. And each time I respond the same way.

I consider that he does it for me, even though I tell him not to, and I consider that it might not be as bad as I make it out to be, and that it can't hurt.

And then my stomach turns, and I wind up roughly nudging him and telling him, "No."

But I don't this time. Instead, I lean back and look at him with my hand pressed to the side of his face again. His eyes are closed, tongue running across the bottom lip of his partially open mouth, and he subtly moves against me, seemingly approving of what I'm doing with my other hand to subdue him. Then he pulls my thumb into his mouth by curling his tongue around it, and I move closer to kiss whatever part of his mouth I can as he does it.

And then the whole world seems to stop as I swallow back my reluctance and start to slowly kneel in front of him, torturously telling myself that it's only an appendage. To make matters worse, I never would have hesitated if he was a woman, and I remind myself that I'm not being fair when I start to buckle from the intention, taking more time than I need to get to where he wants me to go.

Blaming him doesn't help either though, and I close my eyes, reminding myself again that it's nothing, and I kiss his inner thigh, needing more time to convince myself that I can do this while lightly swiping my tongue along the skin, and I almost kiss the ground when someone saves me by knocking on his door.

Selfish, I know I am.

"Do you plan these things?" he accuses, along with a complimenting glare as the front of his robe snaps shut and he kicks me back by my shoulder, causing me to stumble backwards as I protectively cover the sore spot, telling myself to swallow the ache and not to react. Then he mutters, "Every fucking time," referring to the other times I nearly caved and was somehow saved by unforeseen circumstances.

I don't know whether I should laugh from relief or beg for mercy before I start to crawl toward his bed while he tightens the belt of his robe and calls out with an unmistakable agitation in his voice, "What do you want?"

"Uh… It's me, Reno," comes the muffled sound from outside, and immediately, he stiffens with concern over what mindless thing I might do over the sound of that demon's voice, and I clench my fists in the semblance of what I want to do to that redhead's scrawny little neck.

"Jus thought I'd check up on ya, make sure everythin's all right."

"Tell him to go away," I growl, low enough for only Tseng to hear and angry enough for him to show some concern.

"I can't," he hisses back.

"Why not?"

"Because he won't believe anything that I say if I do."

"No one believes you anyway," I mutter as my hand unconsciously jerks toward my gun when Reno taps on his door again, and Tseng jumps forward while calling out, "Give me a second—I'm indecent."

"No worries," Reno answers, almost like he'd rather see Tseng indecent, while Tseng threateningly hisses at me.

"Don't make me regret letting you back in."

"I let myself in," I fire back, not really thinking and causing him to shake his head at me and kneel down to take my gun away. Then he grabs me by the shoulders and roughly pushes me onto his bed.

"I don't think we have enough time for that right now," I sarcastically mutter, unable to hide the sour undertone of the fact that I don't even want him talking to that redheaded bandersnatch right now, never mind opening his damn door for him.

"I don't know what the hell's gotten into you," he growls, keeping it low and pushing my legs back as well, "But if you try to pull another one of your stunts like the last time—"

"I can't promise that," I tell him, causing him to automatically stand straight and slick his hair back. Then he quirks his brow and says, almost regretfully, "Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Vincent."

"Vince."

"Don't start that again."

"I'm not leaving."

"Then stay on the damned bed and don't move," he hisses, urgently as he steps backwards, out of the room and habitually clasping at the collar of his robe. After that, he mumbles more to himself than to me, "I'll try to get rid of him as fast as I can."

In the meantime, my attention falls toward the collection of knives Tseng has when I hear him stuff my gun into one of the cupboards in his kitchen before he rushes to the door to let that conniving crawler in disguise inside.