Though it was just after 0200 station time, the lights in the main lab were full-bright, the air lively with various sounds as machines collated, beeped, and hummed diligently.
The room's only permanent occupant lay silently, a slumbering spider half-lost in a tangle of tubing, wires, and the grid-like laser monitoring system that measured the depth of every breath, the faintest twitch of every muscle.
"Your hair is growing in well," Wilson told the unconscious form, brushing his fingers lightly over black tresses. They had the silk-fine gloss of baby hair and he smirked with irony. "Honestly, I do good work. It's kind of a shame."
The touch of his hand had, of course, disrupted the laser monitor and had been noted in the computer's memory. Shaking his head he turned toward the console, swiftly isolating and then eliminating the record, careful to cover his tracks so that nothing could pinpoint him being in the lab at this hour.
"It's nothing personal, you understand," he said casually as he worked. "In fact, it's more than a bit frustrating, flushing nearly two years worth of work down the toilet. It shouldn't come as any surprise to you that you have enemies. Rather serious enemies, since the request was made that you not just be euthanized, but that you suffer. Honestly, blame the Illusive Man. If he paid me decent I wouldn't have to do this but…you understand. I got bills, sweetheart, detractors…and I'm getting a huge chunk of change for this."
Finishing clearing the records out and inputting two innocuous looking commands, he glanced over at the chemically slumbering form again, then scrubbed a hand over his bald pate. This was the moment of truth. No going back from here. Sixty seconds.
He had barely activated the command when suddenly the door opened. Startled, the man blinked wide-eyed at the dark-haired woman that strolled in.
"Miranda? What are you doing here?"
"I work here, Wilson," she replied dryly.
"Well, yeah, but…it's two in the morning. I thought you were long asleep."
"Not that it's any of your business, but I had some reports I was finishing in my office and though I'd check on those samples again before I turned in. What are you doing here?"
Think! Think fast! There's only about fifteen more seconds before the shit will hit the fan. If Miranda even suspects you're responsible…
"I was getting some strange spikes in her brain wave activity," he lied smoothly, surprising even himself. "I got her vitals hooked up to the console in my quarters. I don't think it's anything to be worried about, just extremely minor fluctuations. Thought I might as well come check on her in person. She…"
Right on time, the soft and steady drone of the heart monitor began to speed, and the form on the cot began to move, to shift slightly. Disrupted, the laser grid began reporting the motion and as it became more distinct, began to sound its own alarm.
"What the hell?" the woman strode over to the bio-bed, eyes widening.
"It's those spikes again," Wilson reported, fixing his eyes to his read-outs. "She's reacting to outside stimuli, showing an awareness of her surroundings…damn, Miranda, she's waking up!"
Had she been anyone other than who she was, Miranda might have stared in horror as the form on the bed shifted, eyes cracking open. Respiratory and heart rate spiked rapidly…and not just in confusion and fear. There was a reason she was still unconscious. Consciousness brought with it unbelievable pain…pain a human body was not meant to endure. That alone would push her vitals beyond the red-line and kill her…and they didn't have nearly enough resources to cure her again.
"Give her the sedative," Miranda ordered sharply, looking over her shoulder at Wilson. "We have to get her out again before-"
A weak hand grasped her wrist. Looking back at the patient, Miranda almost reflexively removed that hand and lowered it again, giving it a gentle squeeze. Dark brown eyes, foggy with semi-consciousness and yet vibrantly alive with agony, seemed to fixate on her face.
"Damn it, Wilson!"
"It's not working! Her vitals are too high, Miranda, she's about to hit the line!"
"Double the dose! Give it to her again!"
Even as she barked the order she strode over, shoving Wilson out of the way and inputting the medication command herself. Almost immediately, the frantic wailing of the machines began to die down, the bright flares of color over the 3D holo of the brain rotating nearby began to muddy and dull back down into unawareness.
Miranda returned to the patient's side, cupping her face and watching as the wildly dilating pupils began to relax and widen, the hot misery fading and retreating like a fish diving into the depths of the sea. She let out a faint breath of relief.
"She's stabilizing," she murmured.
"That was too close. We almost lost her," Wilson answered shakily. "I don't even want to imagine the amount of pain-"
"She's a tough bitch, I'll give her that," Miranda commented as unconsciousness fully settled again. "She must have felt she'd been skinned alive and dipped in acid, but she didn't utter a peep."
"Isn't that the whole point of bringing her back? Because she's one tough bitch?" Wilson snorted.
Turning on the man in irritation Miranda snapped hotly, "Run your numbers again. She shouldn't have woken up on her own, not like that. We're going over every read-out, every minor chemical fluctuation for the last forty-eight hours if we have to. I want to know what caused her to surface and make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Yes, ma'am," Wilson replied, turning back to the computer with a scowl. Thank fortune he'd covered his tracks so well…even Miranda wouldn't be able to detect his tampering. Now, thanks to her, he was going to have to find another way to get rid of Shepard. That is, if he ever hoped to see that stack of credits. Given what had just happened, the pile of meat was going to be under Miranda's constant and paranoid watch…which would only make things much harder.
Her blue eyes fluttered open at the wail and for a long moment she lay there in near perfect darkness, staring upward at her ceiling, trying to hold to the shreds of the dream she had been having. She remembered vivid colors, a dancing feeling, floating almost…no, it was gone.
Trying to sort out what had woken her, she had nearly closed her eyes again when a faint sob sounded out.
In an instant she'd cast her blankets aside, her bare feet slapping over the cool tile as she ran out of her room and for the study.
"Mother!"
A chaos of bottles, spilled puddles that smelled sharply of alcohol, and a glimmering mirror covered in red and green and blue powder were littered over the low table. The chair was on its side, as was Osco…curled on the floor with her hands tangled in her short, gray-blonde hair as she sobbed.
Rushing to her side, Eír pulled the dangling hypodermic out of the woman's pale forearm, and unsnapped the tourniquet. A perfect ruby of blood grew and then spilled down pasty skin as the asari girl shifted the human woman into a sit, cradling her.
"Shh…shh, Mother," she murmured softly. "C'mon, up to your feet. We must get you into the lab."
"I got her," Thug's deep voice rumbled, a moment before the krogan stepped across the floor and bent, lifting the human without trouble. Eír trotted along in his wake as he carried Osco through the hall and into the small lab, laying her down on the bio-bed.
The human woman was unhealthy and pale. Never well-padded in her life, she had turned almost skeletal, her eyes sunk in deep brown hollows only made deeper by the faint red rash that spread on her cheeks and forehead. Throughout her body, the outlines of bones could be seen, roped together by thick cords of tough sinew.
Brushing her dry, straw-like hair back from her face, Eír peered worriedly into the reddened gaze of the only mother she had ever known. "You will be ok," she tried to reassure.
Osco sniffled, then smiled thinly. "Course I will, baby-girl," she murmured. "She just…she won't go away. She won't leave me alone."
"Shepard," Eír stated with a surprising venom. "You see her now?"
Osco's eyes shifted to the form against the far wall, a form only she could see. A rictus grin in a sallow face that seemed to swirl with greens, yellows, and rotten purples, beamed cheerfully back at her.
"Yes," Gellian murmured. "Always…"
"She is dead, Mother," Eír reassured. "You told me so yourself. She died two years ago."
"They're bringing her back, Eír," Osco replied fervently, grasping the asari's hand.
Though Eír was only two years old, thanks to Gellian's genetic manipulations she appeared as any young asari maid of at least ninety, the equivalent of a sixteen or seventeen year old human girl.
She turned out so beautiful, 'Zia. More beautiful than even I was expecting. You would be so proud of her, a daughter worthy of you, worthy to be called asari.
"We cannot let them do that," Eír replied vehemently. "But you cannot keep making yourself so sick, Mother. You need to be strong…for me and Thug. We need you."
"You don't need anyone, baby-girl. You already are so strong…there is none stronger in all of the galaxy. You are strength."
Eír shook her head a little, tears in her eyes. "No…no, I am not so strong, not yet. Please. You must get well. You must stop making yourself so sick. If…if you die, then Shepard has won, don't you see? Then she has beaten you. We…we can do something. If they are bringing her back then we will kill her again. We can do something. Think, Mother. What can we do?"
Gellian's half-glazed eyes moved from Eír's face to that of the silently watching Thug. Her boy…a strong, mountainous, perfect example of the krogan. He was always so silent and brooding, a great rumbling storm-cloud waiting only for a word from his mother or his sister to lash out with the destructive force of a hurricane.
As her gaze returned to her daughter, ignoring the still grinning figure in the far corner, Gellian nodded slowly.
"Tuchanka," she whispered. "It is time for training…for both of you. We will go to Tuchanka, and if they do manage to bring the bitch back…we'll be ready for her."
The club was close and smoky, smelling richly of fried chicken, jalapenos, booze and the best cigars. Each press of her fingers on the guitar strings, each strumming cord that rang out from the old instrument, was perfect.
One boot tapped out a rhythm on the rickety wood stage as she strummed. Brown eyes shifted upward toward the bar as she wondered if that chicken was going to be done soon. She could almost taste it, crunchy with spices and hot with peppers.
A motion at the back of the bar, a strangely hyper-real shimmer of blue, drew her attention. Tilting her head under her swagman hat, she leaned a little, trying to catch sight of the figure in the distance as it moved through the rapt crowd.
She saw the blue again as a face turned toward her, and she jolted. "Liara?"
The asari glanced at her and then continued on her way toward the far door. The music came to a halt as she set her guitar aside, rising off her stool. "Liara!"
The bar suddenly seemed a hundred times larger, a thousand times more crowded. Fighting past drunks and thugs who pushed deliberately into her path, she was growing more and more frantic…more and more angry.
"Liara, wait!"
The asari was nearly to the door. Growling, she planted a fist in a face or two, tearing her jacket free of clinging and clawing hands, shoving forward.
"Tianlán! Where are you going? Stop! Please, stop!"
The asari didn't look at her again, but she could hear her voice now, calling back to her.
"Shepard! Shepard, can you hear me?"
"Here! I'm here, Tianlán! I'm right behind you!"
She shoved forward again, knocking a waitress with a tray full of beers onto her ass. Glass shattered, amber foamed over her boots. The waitress angrily grabbed at her ankle as she started past, and in return, she kicked the woman in the face.
"Shepard!" the plaintive call seemed louder though the figure near the door seemed so distant. As she watched, Liara took hold of the handle.
"I'm coming!"
A great hulking form appeared in her path, a man the size of a wall with a low-slung forehead and breath that reeked of sour beer. Though he stood at least two feet taller than she did, though he had shoulders to measure doorways, she didn't hesitate.
"Get out of my way!" she barked, fist lashing out and spreading a fantastic roundhouse over his lips and teeth.
Flesh split, blood flew, and the man collapsed into dust, the room suddenly empty as the other patrons seemed to collapse with him.
Instantly unencumbered, she ran forward as fast as she was able. Liara glanced back at her a final time before slipping through the door. The same breath in which it latched shut, Shepard all but tore it back open again.
For a brief moment, she saw a beautiful beach with smooth white sand. A turquoise ocean stretched to the horizon, lit with a shimmering sun ten times as bright as any she had ever seen. She could smell the salty air, hear the calling of birds. Down near the water's edge, she could see a boy…she could see Paul, standing and waving at her joyfully.
"Shepard!"
Then it was gone. Something wailed in her ear, the familiar humming throb of an alarm klaxon. Light smeared and blurred as she cracked open her eyes, gasping faintly as sharp pain seemed to stab through her from every angle.
Disorientation, confusion, assaulted her as she tried to focus her eyes, tried to move.
"Commander Shepard! Move your sorry ass now!"
The voice, firm and demanding, immediately brought her to mind of her drill master in boot. Reflex took over and she ungracefully sat up, stumbling onto her feet before she even had time to think.
Wait…what's going on? I'm not in boot any more. Is this an infirmary? Where am I?
Scrubbing at her eyes, trying to clear them, she was suddenly aware of how incredibly weak she felt. She did not recognize any of her surroundings, though it was more and more clear it was an infirmary of some kind.
Quickly, she took stock. Her entire body hurt, though the initial white stabs of pain had dulled into an all-over ache at every motion of her muscles. Though she had been standing only moments, she felt shaky, exhausted. She plucked at the gray, non-descript pair of scrubs she was dressed in. She was barefoot and from the feel, she was wearing nothing underneath them. A light, unfamiliar sensation drifted over her shoulders and she lifted a hand. Her hair was long, hanging in curtains around her face, falling nearly to her middle-back. Her hair hadn't been nearly that long before…had it?
She pushed it aside. Something strange had happened. She had been injured somehow, probably badly. She had no memory of it but there was no other explanation. For some reason she had been left alone, and judging by the wailing klaxons and the faint distant rumbles that could only be explosions, she didn't have time to sit and try and figure it out. She had to move.
Now.
Looking around she quickly took stock of her surroundings. Not sure who was attacking, her first priority was some kind of weapon. Grabbing drawers, compartmentalizing the burning, aching weakness in her muscles, she began to rifle through them. They offered nothing more deadly than a laser scalpel, which she tossed angrily aside.
Cabinets…nothing useful. Then her eyes landed on the stand-light not too far away. Moving over she snatched hold of it, unscrewing its base from the floor. Gripping the top light fixture, she unscrewed that as well, glad it was an enclosed LED light so she didn't have to fuss with wires or risk being shocked. Free of its base and of its fixture, she had only the stand in her hand now…a four foot long steel pipe. It would have to do.
As she moved to the door she listed her priorities. Find a communication point. Find a better weapon. Gather as much intel on the situation as she could. Establish the enemy, establish the mission. Survive at all costs.
The infirmary door was not secure, and opened easily at her touch. A small room lay beyond it and as she glanced around, she noticed the decom equipment embedded in the walls. On the opposite side lay another door.
So the lab she'd been in was static-free, for whatever reason. The only time she'd heard of that being done was for severe burn victims, or to quarantine someone with an exotic or unidentified contagion.
Edging toward the second door she crouched to one side as it slid open. When no immediate attack came, she carefully peeked around.
A corridor, hazy with smoke that was lit by the whirling red lights of the alarm. No one was in evidence. Rising, keeping to one wall with her make-shift steel baton in one hand, she moved quickly down the corridor.
As she reached the far door, her name was suddenly spoken from somewhere near the ceiling.
"Shepard! I've re-e-e-e-established communications but I don't know for how long. B-b-b-b-beeeeee careful, there are security mechs closing in on your position. T-t-t-two are three m-m-meeeeters to your r-r-r-"
The electronic stuttering of the failing comm distorted the woman's words before it cut out again altogether.
Security mechs, she'd said. Shepard searched her hazy memory frantically. What did she know about security mechs?
The Alliance was researching practical applications for heavy mechs in combat scenarios. Some ships had them as standard issue…the Hirohito, and the…the Melbourne. Smaller mechs were used as security and some combat detail.
So, the security mechs would be on her side then. Alliance military issue.
No…no, she said 'be careful'. Why would…whoever she is…warn you about allies?
She tensed as the door suddenly opened. Through the haze she could see a pair of smaller mechs, and remembered they had always kind of creeped her out. Humanoid, they didn't actually look human…very much on purpose. When they were first being developed it was thought that creating them with anything even resembling an organic appearance would be too much for genuine organics to handle. With recognition of the mechs came memory…including memory on how to take them out.
They both held pistols and being dumbass chunks of metal, did not check their corners. The moment they were past Shepard whirled and planted her bare foot in the lower back joint of the nearest, throwing it to the ground. Stepping up onto its fallen form and crouching she swung the pipe like a bat, taking the other one across the back of the knees. As it stumbled she rose and stabbed the pipe through the head of the first, killing it in a flash of sparks and then sweeping up its pistol in a single motion that ended with a bullet planted in the face-lights of the second. In the space of a pair of heartbeats, both mechs were down and out, and Shepard was more satisfactorily armed.
Seeing no consoles, and not skilled enough to hack a mech (even if she could, it probably wouldn't have yielded much information to begin with), Shepard carefully moved on. The soft slap of her bare feet was inaudible above the continuous alarm wailing.
Where were all the people? There had to be people around somewhere. The woman who'd tried talking to her over the comm, for one…where was she?
Her long hair was irritating her, falling in her way. Keeping the pistol in one hand she grabbed her hair in a sloppy handful, twisting it and tying it in a loose knot to keep it out of her face. Spotting a door marked with a universal sign she slapped through it and into a small restroom.
Small, indeed. Two stalls, a sink, and a mirror were the only décor. One of the stall doors hung open on one hinge, the other having been torn free by apparently the same gunfire that had punched dozens of holes through the rest of the structure. She could see a thick lake of crimson on the tiles, and risked a peek within.
Whether it had been a man or a woman, the slumped body within was so chewed up with bullets it was recognizable as neither. Slumped on the toilet it was half-draped over the bog dispenser, blood still slowly dripping from dangling fingertips into the pool beneath it. As her bare-feet gingerly padded into the pool, she noted it was still slightly warm. This poor bastard couldn't have been dead longer than twenty minutes.
Gingerly, with a grimace, she eased her hand under its shattered jaw and lifted the remains of its head slightly. One eye, dangling by the optic nerve, broke free and plopped down at her feet at the motion.
A blood-spattered insignia was stitched on the shredded tunic just below the left shoulder. Her brows knit. It was not the Alliance insignia but it was somehow familiar. She knew she'd seen it before, but her all but absent memory refused to place it. Gently she let the chin drop down again, and backed out of the stall.
Turning to leave the bathroom and get some answers, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror…and halted.
Stepping slowly closer, the pistol clattered a little against the edge of the sink as she braced herself on it, her whole body trembling with more than just muscle exhaustion as she stared at her own reflection.
Normally warm chestnut skin was washed out, pale. Her face was gaunt, lean…her brown eyes slightly sunk into almost bruised hollows. Loose tendrils of her tied black hair hung around her cheeks and shook slightly as she did. She looked…half-starved. Clearly she had been sick or bed-ridden for a very long time, but that was not what made her stare.
Tiny lines, like wrinkles or cracks in her flesh, glimmered ever so faintly red. They mapped across her cheeks, chin, and forehead like some strange form of varicose vein. The fingers of her free hand quested upward, lightly touching them. There was faint pain, like pressing on a fresh bruise. She probed them lightly, then her fingers trailed down to her jaw, trembling more as they hovered.
"No," she whispered, turning her head and prodding more firmly over her skin, as if she could feel what she could not see.
A burn. She should have a burn, right here…a half-healed scar. Acid…yes, that was it. It was from acid…the fight with Saren, the Citadel but…but there was no trace of the scar! The flesh was completely whole, unmarked save those strange cracks.
Her scar was gone!
The pistol clattered into the sink as she grabbed her scrubs, pulling the neckline down and feeling her collar bone.
No. There should be a hook-shaped scar here, from where the Man had cut her…but it, too, was gone!
A faintly keening whine seemed to erupt from her as she nearly tore the tunic hauling it up. Her stomach and side were the same…whole and unmarked save the odd crimson lines. Her ribs stood out in stark-relief but the star-burst scar from where that batarian had stabbed her, the thin parallel stripes over her ribs from where the thresher maw's scales had sliced her armor and her flesh…they were all gone, not even the faintest trace of them left.
She screamed, a sound of grief and fury as her fist slammed into the mirror. Her reflection spider-webbed and then shattered, glass raining down into the sink.
"What did you do to me?" she roared at the kaleidoscope of eyes that now watched her from the remaining bits of mirror. "What did you fuckers do?"
Gone. All gone. Her medals, the only marks of distinction she had ever respected…they'd wiped them out, erased them as if they'd never been. She gripped the edge of the sink so tightly her knuckles turned white, ignoring the few small cuts she'd suffered from hitting the mirror. Her fury overcame her body's miniscule strength for a moment and she sagged down into a sit.
Gripping her hair, she tried to concentrate. Hurt. She had to have been very badly hurt. Perhaps she had been burned. That would explain the decom chamber and her missing scars. Whatever had happened, she'd been out long enough for her hair to grow to almost three times its normal length, for her muscles to atrophy to the point she felt like she'd run a marathon just walking across the room. Weeks, easily…perhaps months.
She struggled to remember. Saren, the Citadel…was she hurt in the attack? No…no, she remembered the awards ceremony afterward, talking to the Council. The smug turian ass had thought she'd asked the Alliance to save the Destiny Ascension for them. Yes, that she remembered.
Ok, what after that? Geth. They'd sent her and the Normandy to clear out pockets of geth…a frustrating prospect at best. She'd been venting to Liara about the stupidity, the futility of it all when Joker's voice-
It all came rushing back at a fevered pace. Joker. The attack. Shouting at the pilot to get to the goddamn pod, and Liara-
"Liara," she breathed, a new concern speeding her heart. The Normandy had been attacked, horrifically. She remembered ordering Liara to get everyone to the lifeboats before she went up to the CIC to fetch Joker herself. She remembered all but throwing the man into the pod and then…
…then nothing. Everything just went black. She must have been injured in an explosion, maybe, and somehow Joker had gotten her into the pod. An explosion would explain being burned, explain the clean room and her missing scars.
But Liara? Williams, Garrus, and the others…had they gotten out safely?
Struggling back up to her feet she fished the pistol out of the sink. She had to find them, or find out what happened to them. And to do that, she needed to find out just what the fuck was going on.
Ten minutes later found her in what had to be the mess hall, or some kind of cafeteria. Bodies were everywhere, all wearing tunics emblazoned with that strangely familiar symbol. She still couldn't pinpoint it, and didn't have time to try. Every console she found was either burned out or required some kind of encryption code. One had worked…somewhat, but all that it had spilled out was some man lamenting that he wished the boss would 'kick some extra credits' his way.
Once more, briefly, that woman's voice had sputtered over the comm, saying something about a shuttle bay, but it had cut off nearly as quickly as last time.
Mechs, however, she was finding plenty of. Four lay scattered about the ground in dying spits of electricity, her latest work. Retrieving a thermal clip from a dead metal corpse she popped out her overheated one and slid the new one into place. As she did, she heard a sound coming from just outside the door.
Drifting over silently she put her back to the wall just to the left of the open doorway, holding her breath. As a figure stepped through she swept in, slamming her elbow between a set of shoulder blades and slamming the form to the ground.
A bark of spent air marked this one as most definitely not a mech. Holding him down, she pressed her pistol to the back of his skull. The figure, a human man, froze.
"Do not move a fucking muscle if you don't want me to air out your skull," she hissed.
"It's me," he protested, though he was smart enough not to move. "It's Jacob! What are you doing?"
"I don't know any fucking Jacob," she snarled back. "I want some goddamn answers!"
"Wait, I…you're not Miranda…holy shit. Shepard?"
"Start talking!" she barked.
"Hey, hey, ok…shit…I know you must be confused. You weren't supposed to be awake yet, not for another three weeks. I guess Miranda woke you up when this mess started to go down. Look, I'm not your enemy. My name is Jacob Taylor."
"Where are we? Do you know what happened to me? Where's Liara?"
As she spoke she was frisking him with one hand, quickly pulling a pistol from his belt and making sure he had no knives hidden in his boots. Noticing a small biotic amp plugged into the back of his skull she popped it out, ignoring his faint grunt of pain as she did so. Satisfied he was unarmed she eased back and got to her feet, keeping her gun trained on him as he slowly got to his feet and turned around.
He didn't look like a doctor, or a medic of any kind. He looked, in fact, like a marine, his clothes bearing that same strange insignia. He was wise enough to keep his hands in sight, but he kept staring at her like she was some kind of star from a sensory band.
"There's not enough time to go into a full explanation," he told her. "Short story is this: your ship, the Normandy, was attacked and destroyed. You…ah…were brought here. You've undergone some extensive medical procedures and you aren't quite healed completely yet."
"I put that all together on my own," she snapped bitterly. "What about my crew? Are they all right?"
"Most of them got out fine. A few didn't make it, mostly those on the lower decks. Pressley, your XO, died in the initial attack."
"What about Liara? Is she ok?"
"The asari? Yeah, she got out fine. Chief Williams too. Neither were hurt."
Liara was all right. Shepard was startled at the amount of sheer relief just knowing that brought.
"So what's the sit now? What's with all the fucking mechs?"
"They provide security for this station," he answered. "Someone hacked them, apparently. They've been wiping out everyone they've come across, trying to get to you."
Her jaw tightened, her eyes shifting ever so slightly. Trying to get to her. All these dead people, all this carnage…because someone was trying to kill her.
One of Saren's supporters, probably…or a batarian merc with a hell of a grudge.
"All right, Mr. Taylor. That woman on the comm system…the Australian…?"
"Miranda, she heads this pro…station."
Her eyes narrowed, not missing his correction. "Miranda. She said something about a shuttle bay. We're going there. Now."
Stepping forward she flipped his pistol around in her hand, offering it to him butt-first. As he took it she passed him back his amp as well. "I'm trusting you," she warned firmly. "Don't give me a reason or I will fucking kill you, understand?"