Tom sat with one leg dangling off his bed toward the back of Dottie's hangar as he polished one of the many musical instruments in his repertoire, his Mellophone. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked, but then his teal eyes looked up at the shadow of a large, dark shape beginning to make its way past front of the open doors of the hangar.
It was Ripslinger. Tom only sat, captivated at the P-51's huge mass, thin as he was at the time and back-lit by the late-morning sun, as he moved smoothly along in a movement that belied his form, making no acknowledgment of the human. Tom wasn't used to aircraft, and Ripslinger was like nothing he'd ever seen. The few aircraft he'd been around since arriving on the Vivens machina's side of the sky were smaller; little farm and touring planes. By contrast, Ripslinger was just so much different, almost exotic even. And Tom was transfixed, as a human who's stumbled across some elegant, mythical beast might be. He watched as the Mustang's tail disappeared past the other side of the door frame, and quietly set his Mellophone down and went to follow him, grabbing a bottle of water from his backpack he used for storing his music.
Tom stepped outside to find that Ripslinger was suddenly nowhere in sight. He looked around, a little surprised, before smiling slightly. Hide and seek, eh? This shouldn't be too difficult, he thought before jogging around the town. The Sun was directly overhead soon enough, and sweat dripped from the human's' forehead as he passed other airplanes and forklifts, raising a hand in acknowledgment. Despite the unrelenting summer heat, the countryside was pulchritudinous in its expanse. Great green belts of corn stretched for kilometers around, disappearing into the horizon if it weren't for the mountainous backdrop.
After a good ten minutes of searching however, Tom scratched his head in slight confusion. How can something, er, someone, that big disappear like that? And so quietly, too? Tom continued in the direction he saw the big plane heading, intent on finding where he had got to. But as ten minutes became twenty, and twenty became thirty, he sighed in small defeat, finally deciding to return to Dottie's hangar as he rounded the corner of a hangar. Upon rounding that very corner, however, his head collided with something painfully solid, creating a slightly visible dent in the human's forehead.
Ripslinger had just laid down, and they seemed to startle one another as Tom just barely stifled a quick gasp where the P-51 had looked up at him sharply with a soft snort from his exhausts. There was a rather tense moment as human and plane simply stared at one another before Ripslinger eventually got back up and moved off, Tom's head tilting back further and further as the racer rose, but he didn't budge. His expression was slightly irked but also somewhat inquisitive as he continued to stare at the little human as he passed him by before setting his olive-colored eyes ahead of him. Tom stayed where he was, watching the Mustang stalk off for more private resting places when a familiar female voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Hey."
Tom craned his neck to see the point of origin of the sound. It was Clarice, who had apparently been watching the whole, awkward thing. He about-faced on his heels to turn to look at her.
"Hey, Clarice," he said, nodding his head in acknowledgment.
"He keeps you on your toes, huh?" she asked, giving a good-natured smile.
"Yeah."
Both humans turned back to look at Ripslinger moving aimlessly among the hangars, stopping now and then to examine with veiled curiosity some lawn decoration or other.
"You like planes?"
"Yeah," Tom answered with more of an edge to his voice than he really meant to in a sort of "isn't it obvious?" tone, "I like him," he said, gesturing with his head toward the racer.
"Well, he can be kind of temperamental, even with other planes, so you be careful around him," Clarice cautioned, watching Ripslinger as he finally found a grassy spot under a tree and laid down once more, before continuing, thoughtfully, "He seems to find you pretty interesting though."
"He does?" Tom asked, sounding a bit distant as his eyes were still on the checker-marked P-51, but still intrigued.
"Yeah. Can't you see?"
Tom turned back toward her. "Can't I see what?" he repeated, looking slightly confused.
"You'll see eventually," Clarice answered cryptically, with a slightly mischievous smile upon her features.
Tom stared after her as she said no more, losing himself in his constant internal monologue. "You'll see eventually", Tom thought, slightly scoffing as he stepped off towards Dottie's hangar. Whatever that means.
That same day, Dusty returned to town, just recently having slipped away real quick for a short tournament. Almost the whole town was collected on the runway to do their usual thing of greeting him, praising him and telling him how well he did.
Tom however, wasn't as fashionably late as he usually was. In fact he was very near to being late late. Sprinting to the Fill 'n' Fly to make sure to catch Dusty in time, he tripped in a crack in the road, his aviators flying off his head as he ate asphalt. Blood spilled from his nose like a river as he picked himself up and quickly dusted himself off, continuing in the direction of the Fill 'n' Fly, apparently not learning his lesson as he ran again at full bore.
Sulking silently in Dusty's hangar was Ripslinger, either oblivious or simply not caring at all the fanfare of Dusty's return. He had been watching nonchalantly as Tom bolted across town. Who knew that humans could move so fast despite looking like a rather clumsy, ungraceful lot? Nose and eyes following the human's path as he ran, he gave a hardly noticeable start when he totally bit it into the pavement right in front of where he was. There it is. Then his expression grew baffled at Tom's apparent audacity to just get right back up and continue on in the manner that got him into trouble in the first place. Well… the kid had tenacity, he'd give him that.
XXxx
Walking, although more like roll stepping, back to Dottie's hangar, Tom had a myriad of time to think now that he was here. His hyperactive brain had thoughts seemingly float in and disappear at times, but they were more truncated than anything. Sometimes, an interesting idea for a song or a marching show would float by and he'd latch onto it, writing down his ideas for the said topic.
Right now though, there was only one thought on his mind: Ripslinger. He was a weird plane. There was just something about him that he couldn't pin down. To Tom, it seemed that everyone else around here was fairly predictable, but with Ripslinger, he felt as if he was facing a robot in a game of chess. Cold, faceless, giving no such indication of what his next move was going to be. Of course, robots tended to follow strict patterns. Ripslinger did not. And he knew next to nothing about him but his celebrity. While he did carry that air of spoiled disdain, his demeanor also spoke of a certain indolence, and even melancholy, that Tom didn't understand.
Lost in thought, the human nearly walked right into Dusty, who was conversing with Skipper outside of the Fill 'n' Fly, about seemingly the most random things, then he suddenly shouted a whisper to the old Corsair when he noticed the little human was at the tip of his nose, looking up at him expectantly.
"Oh, hey Tom! What's up?"
"Entropy," Tom responded without missing a beat.
Confused looks from the crop duster-turned-racer and the warbird ensued.
"Oh… kay… Oh yeah! I almost forgot!" Dusty responded tangentially, whirling around to grab something behind him, while Skipper just looked on with a slight smile. Turning back around, Dusty had a small box gently gripped in his teeth. "Here you go!" he said before tossing it to the human in question.
Expression level, Tom caught it with one hand and opened it quickly. Inside was what seemed to be like a roll of money. A big roll of money. $25,000 dollars, to be exact. Tom nearly keeled over dead. The way Dusty had thrown it at him it might have been as insignificant as a stick of gum.
"What is this?"
"Well, isn't it pretty obvious? It's a bo-"
"No, no, I know what it is," Tom said, cutting off the crop duster, "but why?"
The human had actually dropped the box at some point, too shocked to remember exactly when. He held his head in his hands, not knowing to react or how the hell to accept this. And then that's when the shouting match began.
"Tell me Ripslinger got one, too," Tom said quickly, his voice level but his expression accusatory.
"What do you mean?" Dusty responded.
"Tell me everyone else got a box, too," now he was starting to sound desperate in disbelief.
"Well, I haven't…"
"Give this box to Ripslinger," Tom said, thrusting the box at Dusty's nose.
"Why?"
And that was about all the human was able to stand anymore.
"Why? Why?!" Tom responded, starting to shout. "We've barely even known each other for like week! What the hell have I done to deserve this?!" He concluded bitterly before turning around and hastily removing himself before he got any more upset than he already was.
Dusty was shocked at the human's reaction, and Skipper nearly went to follow him, but Dusty stopped him with his wing.
"Don't worry, Skip, I'll handle it."
"You're still dealing with the last thing you 'handled'," Skipper jabbed.
"Pshh. This is a totally different situation," Dusty responded laconically, before rolling off after Tom and picking up the crumpled box.
Tom didn't want that money. He had always had a difficult time taking anything from anyone, least of all money, which Dusty had just found out, being a person of much self-action. And it had only worsened with his forced independence at such a young age before he'd been truly ready for it. Besides, what was he to him? He didn't know him from a can of paint. Sure, he knew about Dusty, but he didn't know him. Just then, the aforementioned racer wooshed past him, turning sharply to face the human and block his path.
"¿Qué te quieres, güey?" ["What do you want, fool?"], Tom spat in Spanish.
Tom had a habit where he would usually resort to other languages when he was angry, but Dusty was learning this human's ways faster than Tom was obviously learning his, and wasn't fazed in the slightest as he held the box of money in his mouth and rolled up to Tom. Crouching down in his landing gear to put his eyes level to the steely eyes of the human's, he put the box down, and spoke.
"Thomas, I want you to know something…" Money has no value to me, is what the orange and white plane almost said, but he was worried that the human might again respond negatively to that, so he corrected himself before continuing, "I have more money than I know what to do with."
"Your point?" Tom said, raising his eyebrow; he already knew where he was trying to go with this, but he was curious as to how the airplane would get there.
"My point is, I could probably buy the entire world if I wanted to. But I don't want the world," he stressed. "All I want is to be surrounded by the people I love, and to see them be happy. My friends are my whole world. Besides, accidents happen. I could die anytime I go up to race. Then what good is it really? It's not like I can take it with me."
Well, you certainly have better things to do with it than waste it on me, Tom thought to himself sorely. But he knew better than to sass the former-crop duster, even though he didn't want the money.
"So you give money to your friends so you can keep them as friends, or because you think they need it more than you?"
Dusty laughed at this. "Well, to be honest probably a bit of both. But I don't see that as a bad thing. I mean, I would never have made it through this world without any of them. They all make my life so much better."
"And how do I make your life better?" Tom said, genuinely confused.
"You give me something to think about. And to look up to." And the human was greatly taken aback by this. "You've lost everything," Dusty empathized, and Tom's surprised expression darkened down, looking pensive in muted sorrow. "I don't think even I would be able to keep on going if I'd lost so much."
Tom was a little speechless. Wow, that much of an effect? But then again he'd been living the way he had for long enough now. It wasn't unusual to him anymore. But still… Dusty picked the packet of money back up, raising it toward Tom entreatingly. The human smiled and took it. Good enough, Tom thought before extending his hand, and then realizing that planes didn't have hands. Oh boy, here we go.
"Oh. Umm, what constitutes as a handshake in airplane terms?"
Tom froze then, as Dusty immediately leaned down and in, smiling as he ever-so-gently touched the tip of his nose cone to the human's nose. Tom blushed slightly. Apparently aircraft had no sense of personal space. But then an odd pressure pulsed through his being at the proximity. It was a feeling that shook him to his bones, and blurred his vision, but was then gone just as fast as it came on as the plane drew away.
"T-Thank you," Tom said, before bowing to the plane. He had no idea why he did that. He just suddenly felt compelled to for some reason.
"Haha! No problem! Welcome to the family!" Dusty responded, with the biggest smile on his face.
And Tom was stunned. Family. This plane considered him part of his mis-matched, weird, wonderful family. The human was frozen in indecisiveness at how to properly respond, but then thought, to hell with it, and threw his arms around the racer's nose, hugging him tight, his face showing the strain of trying not to cry. Dusty's engine gave a soft flutter as he wiggled a bit, as if to bury himself further into the human's embrace. Tom composed himself, but didn't yet let go.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"You're welcome, Tom," Dusty said as they pulled away from each other. Tom gave him a few pats on the nose before Dusty moved to return to Skipper, "Spend it well!" he called behind him.
"Well, that went well," Skipper remarked as Dusty returned to his side.
"What can I say? Just call me the Human Whisperer!" Dusty said with a dorky grin.
"Hah. 'Whisperer'," Skipper jested sardonically, at which Dusty's landing gear stiffened and he turned and looked at him with an irked but amused expression. The old guy was just in rare form today.
"Do you really wanna start?" Dusty asked, still smiling but getting dangerously close to his mischievous, "this means war" face.
"Oh, no, no…" Skipper replied, still sounding condescending despite the warning of trouble.
"'Cause I'll go right now if you wanna start."
"No, no, no…"
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
They taxied in silence for a few moments, then Skipper said softly, "Good boy, Dusty." and then the smaller plane flashed him that famous thousand-watt smile of his.
Meanwhile, Tom was walking down the road back to Dottie's hangar, tossing the box of money from hand to hand. Okay first things first, I'm getting a Marimba. A five octave one, along with some sticks. Some nice ones…
XXxx
Meanwhile, Ripslinger had been making his usual, bored, uninterested rounds around the neighborhood when he thought he could hear some sort of music coming from the general direction of Dottie's hangar. Only it wasn't the gentle, slow melodies of the Baby Grand of hers that he was used to, often sitting near or behind the hangar and dozing quite peacefully as it permeated softly through the walls. It definitely wasn't the sounds of Tom's horns and drums. This was an instrument that he wasn't altogether familiar with. It had a warm, round feel to it, the sound, and Ripslinger instantly started listening. He could hear the near-expert level of musicality put into the piece as it was played, the rubato of tempo just enough not to be boring, but not too much as to be crazy and chaotic.
Curiously, he followed it, stopping every now and then to listen intently whenever a certain motif piqued his interest. He reached the outside of Dottie's hangar, poked his nose around the doorframe, and then his mouth dropped open slightly in realization at what he saw. He rolled further into the hangar, and then sat back into his tail gear and silently watched.
Tom, oblivious to the P-51 entering the hangar, continued to play, eyes often closed as he got a feel for the music. This was one of his absolute favorite pieces to play; he played several times during his short high school career, and even played it as his Marimba solo for Sophomore year. But right here, right now, in this hangar, with this Marimba, and with these sticks, the song had never sounded better. The acoustics and blend of sound were perfect for this song, and he could never have even hoped that it would sound better that this.
Glancing over though, he caught sight of something unexpected. Ripslinger. Letting his brain go on autopilot, Tom studied the airplane with his peripheral vision. He was just sitting there. He didn't move, didn't speak, and disturbingly didn't blink. Just fixed him with this intent stare. It was like playing for a museum prop. Despite any awkwardness there might have been, Tom never faltered once, and having this particular plane's full attention on you was never exactly pleasant.
Ripslinger, for his part, was actually focused on the human's hands. He was nothing short of mesmerized, the same way a human might be fascinated and perhaps even disturbed by a chameleon snatching an insect with its tongue, or a snake still having the ability to swim or climb a tree with no limbs at all. At this point the music was just a plus. But then Tom suddenly paused.
"Do you want to try?" he asked, holding up each of the mallets in a gesture towards Ripslinger.
And after giving the tiniest start, the P-51 scoffed with a snort from his exhausts to cover himself and went skulking out of the hangar, leaving Tom blinking behind him. But then the next day, he was back watching Tom play again. And for the next few days he kept coming back whenever he knew Tom was practicing, silent and still like always as he watched the human play. It was a bit awkward at first for Tom, who thought it a bit odd that Ripslinger would take time out of his busy schedule of loafing, staring at nothing, and yawning to come and watch him mess around on the Marimba. But with an audience to impress, so to speak, it quickly became less so.
Ripslinger was obviously captivated, watching the movements of his hands flow like water, and yet, at points it looked very jagged, almost as if he was stuttering. But he still never faltered. It was perfect in its rhythm, even if at times it was a discombobulated mess. But what really impressed Ripslinger is how fast Tom could change from one mallet type to the other. A large stick bag hanging on the Marimba contained all the mallets that Tom had bought, and the Mustang found it mesmerizing that he could stop, put those mallets away, and then grab a new pair, all in an instant. Not only that, but when he did it, it looked perfectly fluid, no interruptions speed or flow to his movements or the music.
It was on the 6th day of this strange, unspoken ritual, that Ripslinger didn't hear the Marimba, but instead heard a completely different sound: one of singing. Sure enough, it was coming from the same location of Dottie's hangar, but there was something a bit odd, and Ripslinger couldn't quite place it. Apprehensively, green and black plane moved closer to the hangar, and found that the human was indeed the one singing. As Ripslinger entered the hangar, he could make out the words that the human was saying:
…Standing above the crowd,
He had a voice that was strong and loud and I
Swallowed his facade 'cause I'm so
Eager to identify with
Someone above the ground,
Someone who seemed to feel the same,
Someone prepared to lead the way, and
Someone who would die for me.
If Ripslinger said that he wasn't moved by the words, he'd be lying. It reminded him of himself a little bit; he'd almost forgotten.
"You have a beautiful voice," he said, before he could catch himself.
Tom, turning around as if he knew Ripslinger was there, said, "Thanks. Seriously, you are the first person to tell me that veraciously."
Realizing what he said, the big plane snorted again as if to keep his integrity and said, "Don't mention it." Little did he know that Tom managed to see right through the bluff, and smiled slightly in response. "I didn't know humans sang," he then said with genuine realization.
"Of course we sing. You sing," he said, indicating all Vivens machina, the P-51's emphasis on it's significance going over the human's head.
Ripslinger scoffed softly, a bitter expression darkening his features again.
"Not me."
"Why not?" Tom asked.
"I…" the P-51 hesitated. "I can't…"
But the human again took his apprehension for bashfulness.
"Sure you can; we're the only ones in here."
"I just can't, okay!" Ripslinger snapped, suddenly becoming upset in his self-consciousness, and Tom wisely pressed no further, but continued to sing himself.
And the Mustang could not help but be intrigued. The boy really did have a rather nice singing voice. He waited, curious to see what sort of signature a human might carry, but felt nothing. Was it because he was broken? No, that couldn't be. Dusty sang all the time, and Skipper also sang when he thought no one was around, and Ripslinger had been able to sense them better and better lately. Perhaps humans were different. Maybe they didn't even possess such things. But that couldn't be. Why should singing and music obviously carry some importance to this creature's culture otherwise?
Then Ripslinger was compelled to try to sing with the human. Maybe that was it. He started up, and surprised himself with how strong and level his voice was, but he lost it quickly and his voice faltered and dropped off. But Tom continued to sing, and he felt encouraged. He tried again, forcing himself through his Soul's taxed sputtering and protest, and miraculously, his voice leveled out and began to grow in confidence as human and plane sang together.
At first Tom had nearly lost his own voice when Ripslinger had properly found his. What a gorgeous voice! But then Tom stopped singing altogether as he began to sense something very odd. He felt a sort of current wash over him. Not a current of air, certainly not a current of water. It was impossible to tell if it were hot or cold, but all the same it had struck him badly and sent a horrible chill down his spine, every hair on his body standing up. It was not unlike what he had felt that one day when Dusty had touched noses with him, but, as jarring as that had been, that had almost felt like a good feeling. Bright, positive, charged. This was distinctly different. This was a bad feeling. Corroded, black, and suffocating like tar.
There was also a sound that Tom thought he heard; little sussurations, only he couldn't associate them with anything. It was a breathless, lungless sound. It seemed to be in the air rather than coming from Ripslinger himself, and as the Mustang's voice began to grow stronger as he sang, the noise began to take on an eerie, haunting, near-and-far whine, making the human's ears ring. And when Tom heard that he realized that there had been no other sounds in the room since Ripslinger had really started to sing.
Strange emotions began to purvey over his consciousness. Not strange in that they were unfamiliar; he knew these feelings well. Sorrow, anger, despair, loss… But these feelings were not his. He knew it to be so. These emotions were admittedly much deeper and spoke of such long suffering that he was quickly beginning to become overwhelmed, and the constant whining that had been ringing in his ears was growing louder and more clear all the time.
His senses began to cloud over; sight, smell. He felt a surge of faintness pour up through his body. The whole world seemed to topple away and leave him alone in that dreadful place of bad feelings and nothingness. He was nowhere, and suddenly felt so small in the face of it that he thought it would choke him of breath. The whine then suddenly became a high, shrill clamor of such an uproar, as if every single thing in the hangar were screaming. Disjointed screams of horror and anguish. And it was at this point that the human's self-possession could stand no more. Ripslinger had still been singing when he was interrupted by a clattering thud, and then stopped and turned to see Tom sprawled out on the floor.
"Tom?" the big P-51 rolled closer, confusion written on his face, concern too, if you knew how to look. "Tom?"
He was about nudge the still human, but hesitated. Then Dusty came rolling into the hangar, Clarice not far behind him, looking alarmed and worried.
"Rip, is everything okay? I could have sworn I felt…" then he noticed Tom unresponsive on the floor with the green and black plane bent over him. "Thomas! What did you do?!"
"I didn't do anything!" Ripslinger shot back defensively, "We were singing and he just passed out, I don't know what happened!"
"You were singing?!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, what about Tom?" the checker-marked plane hastily redirected.
Clarice was already down on the floor, checking him. She ran a hand over his forehead, pushing his thick brown hair back.
"He's out cold, but he should be fine, I think," she assessed, giving a hard, appraising look at Ripslinger for a few moments, and it made the Mustang feel anxious for some reason. "Come on, let's move him over to the bed in case he wakes up rough. Come on, help me, I can't pick him up by myself."
Dusty was the one that ended up helping Clarice move Tom over onto his bed; she originally looked to Ripslinger, but, oddly, he made no attempt to hide his apprehension this time, almost seeming to be afraid to touch the boy. Dusty began to get nervous when he hadn't woken up after a few minutes, not knowing exactly how different human physiology was from his own, but Clarice assured both planes that they shouldn't be taking any action.
"Look it's fine, I'm telling you," she insisted, gently, "Just give his body a chance to recover on it's own. You can make a bad situation worse if you try to force it. Just keep an eye on him, but leave him alone." She went to leave the hangar, but turned as she neared the door-frame. "Dusty?"
"Yes?" he replied, his eyes not leaving the unconscious human.
"Can you come with me for a minute? I want to talk to you about something." The orange and white plane seemed hesitant, glancing at Ripslinger for a brief moment, before Clarice said in a sweet, almost patronizing voice, "Rip can watch him for a bit, won't you? He should be waking up any time now."
The girl and the smaller plane left, and Ripslinger was left alone with Tom. He watched the human from a distance, thinking. What was that look Clarice gave him for? He didn't do anything wrong, they were just singing. It just rubbed him the wrong way. He had always thought her to be weird, and Tom too, but then again, he thought all humans were weird. Annoyingly intuitive, the both of them. And then that really got him thinking. As often as Dusty, and sometimes Skipper, would sing, now that he thought about it, Clarice always seemed to suddenly make herself scarce. Could she somehow sense the involvement of their Soul's when they sang? Was Tom the same way? Could all humans? He inched closer to the sleeping mat, looking down at him. Did he really do this to him?
Just then his thoughts were interrupted as Tom stirred a bit. Ripslinger watched intently to see if he would wake, but was checked as the human murmured in a small voice.
"I wanna go home…"
It was almost like a little child's voice, and the Mustang was moved at once to pity him from the sentiment behind it and it's familiarity in spite of himself. Panic started to build as memories long locked away threatened to fight their way to the surface. He forced them back, and then sank into his landing gear.
"Oh Tom…" he sighed. "I'm sorry."
He crept just that much closer, nose cone nearly touching the boy's face, but then he quickly drew back again when he suddenly woke with a sharp, broken gasp. His eyes were wide as he looked around, finding himself in his own bed in Dottie's hangar.
"Rip?" he rasped, his voice thick with grogginess and disorientation. "What happened?"
"I… I don't know…" he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "What do you remember?"
Tom sat up, then immediately regretted it as his vision swam and he was tempted to just fall back into the soft padding of the mattress. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, his head pounding and neck stiff and aching.
"I remember us singing…" he seemed to try to strain to remember. "I don't really remember anything other than that."
Ripslinger was a bit disappointed. Could it have just been a coincidence? Some sort of fluke? He was nearly tempted to try to press further but Tom spoke first.
"You have a really nice voice too."
The human and plane stared at one another, Tom offering a small smile through the pain wreaking havoc in his brain and eyeballs. Ripslinger didn't quite know how to respond to that, but was spared when Dusty and Clarice came back into the hangar, the rest of the group following behind them, concern turning to relief. He was surrounded in an instant, surprised and smiling bashfully at such a display of care and consideration for someone they'd barely known for even two weeks yet, and was a little lost himself in how to properly respond. Ripslinger, for his part, used the distraction to quietly slip away.
Now he really was getting way more than he'd ever bargained in making this deal with Dusty. And he didn't want any of it. He was more confused and out of his element than ever. He wanted out badly already, but alas, couldn't fly and was stuck in this thing whether he liked it or not, which he didn't. This was just too much for him to be able to take in his condition right now. Curse that over-trumped crop duster! How much more could he possibly take from him? He snorted irritably from his exhausts, setting out to find somewhere he could properly be alone.
