- Beginning 1.3 -
o-0-o
Pushing the front door open, I stumble inside, my clothes clinging to me like a second skin. Hurriedly, I shed them, letting the damp fabric hit the floor in a hasty cascade. I avoid catching my reflection in the mirrors, terrified that I might glimpse something otherworldly staring back at me.
A peculiar sensation lingers within me, something unprovable yet undeniably real. I can feel it, deep in my bones—a presence that isn't native to my being. It's as if I've become a vessel for something beyond my understanding. Maybe, just maybe, it's connected to that towering silver giant from the dream that refuses to fade, a dream so vivid and clear it's etched into my memory like a scene from reality.
I'm no dream expert, but that was far from ordinary. The colors, the details—it's like a surreal painting eternally hanging in the gallery of my mind. And then there's that strange word, 'Ultraman,' echoing in my thoughts like a distant, persistent whisper.
But, if what I experienced wasn't a mere dream but an actual event, then…
No. I forcefully shake my head. It's not certain that it was a tangible, real occurrence. I mean, what would I even say to a therapist? "Hey, doc, I had this dream that wasn't really a dream, and in it, there was a silver giant battling hordes of monsters. Crazy, huh!" I'd be the one consigned to the padded room, labeled as the lunatic.
Glancing at the clock, I see it's already afternoon. With a determined mindset, I change into dry clothes in a flash. I can't shake off the unsettling feeling that something's dwelling within me, possibly pulling the strings of my own movements. I refuse to be a puppet, dancing to someone else's tune.
Having made up my mind, I decide to head to Brockton Bay's central library to unravel the mystery behind 'Ultraman.' Time is of the essence, and I want to utilize every available moment for research. The library usually closes around 8 pm, but I aim to get there with ample time to spare. Winter vacation is looming just a few days away, and I want to make the most of this opportunity.
As I prepare to leave, I pass by the mirror near the entrance without giving it a second thought. Little do I realize that my reflection lingers, almost as if it's trying to convey a message that I'm too preoccupied to receive.
o-0-o
The cold wind nips at my cheeks as I step outside of my house, and I pull my coat tighter around me. The streets around my house are unusually empty, but my mind is too fixated on the inexplicable phenomenon within me to pay much attention to the desolate streets. I await the bus, staring at the digital display that teases me with the minutes ticking by.
It's a quiet wait. The occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a passing car are the only sounds that break the silence. My breath forms misty clouds in the chilly air, a visual representation of the uncertainty swirling within me.
Finally, the bus rumbles into view, and I board, finding a seat near the window. The journey to the library is expected to take about 20 to 30 minutes, a seemingly endless stretch if the traffic is unkind or if any cape-related incidents decide to spice up the commute. I peer out the window, observing the cityscape passing by, buildings standing like silent sentinels against the overcast sky.
My mind races with questions. What was that word, 'Ultraman'? And how does it connect to the bizarre happenings in my life? The city outside may be quiet, but my thoughts are a cacophony of confusion and curiosity.
The bus rumbles on, navigating through the city's labyrinthine streets. I glance at my reflection in the window, half-expecting it to reveal some hidden truth. But, nothing happens..
As the bus approaches the library, anticipation and anxiety wrestle within me. The doors of the bus open with a hiss, and I step onto the pavement.
"Fuuuhh…" I inhale deeply, stretching my body as I step off the bus. "Hmm? What's that?" I glance around, my eyes catching on an unusual sight. The city is swarmed with PRT presence, their distinct uniforms a stark contrast against the urban backdrop. It's not uncommon to see a few PRT officers patrolling, but this is different.
As I observe, I notice that many of them are geared up in full-body armor. It's the kind reserved for dealing with highly dangerous capes like Lungs or Hookwolf. A chill runs down my spine. What could be happening to warrant this level of preparation? Is there a cape causing trouble, or something more sinister unfolding in the shadows of the city?
I decide to blend into the crowd, my curiosity now heightened to a fever pitch. I follow the ebb and flow of people, my ears straining to catch snippets of conversation. Whispers of an unknown threat, a disturbance in the cape community, float through the air like spectral warnings. The tension is thick, an invisible current that everyone seems to feel, and whatever is happening, it must be very serious.
As I navigate through the crowd, the urgency in people's voices becomes more palpable. Concerned glances are exchanged like a silent agreement that something is amiss, and the usual bustle of the city has been replaced by an ominous undercurrent. PRT officers, clad in their formidable full-body gears, move with purpose through the streets, their expressions unreadable behind the masks that shield their identities.
Then, my eyes catch the unmistakable presence of two of Brockton Bay's revered heroes. One is a man, resplendent in red body armor with a visor that gleams in the pale light. Next to him stands a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman, her attire adorned with a scarf and sash fashioned after the American flag, accentuated by stylized, fitted army fatigues.
I know them well. Heck, who in Brockton Bay does not know their local heroes?
The Protectorate members: Assault and Miss Militia.
My heart skips a beat at the sight of them. The fact that these stalwart defenders are on the scene only intensifies the gravity of the situation. I inch closer, trying to catch snippets of their conversation with other PRT officers. The hushed tones and terse exchanges hint at the severity of the threat they are facing.
I decide to approach, cautiously weaving through the crowd until I'm within earshot. Their presence alone is enough to evoke a sense of reassurance, but the underlying tension in the air suggests that even these heroes may be grappling with an adversary of unknown magnitude.
"Hey! What's going on? Is there some cape threat?" The urgency in the shout captures my attention, and like many others, I turn to identify the source. A young woman stands there, a few years older than me, her dark blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She possesses a mild, above-average appearance with vulpine facial features, freckles decorating the bridge of her nose, and eyes described as "bottle-glass green." Her outfit consists of a one-piece dress, and she wears glasses, adding an air of intellectual curiosity to her demeanor.
A murmur ripples through the crowd, but no one seems to have a clear answer. The uncertainty in the air is almost palpable. The woman's voice cuts through the tension again, determined and insistent, "I need to know what's happening. Is the city under threat?"
PRT officers exchange guarded glances but remain tight-lipped. The heroes, Assault and Miss Militia, share a brief, meaningful look before Miss Militia steps forward, her voice projecting authority. "There is no immediate threat. This is merely a drill—a training exercise between the Protectorate and PRT, aimed at enhancing our coordination in case of actual threats."
The revelation washes over the crowd, a mix of relief and confusion evident on people's faces. The young woman who initially sought answers looks both surprised and skeptical. "A drill? Why wasn't there any prior announcement? People are scared!"
Miss Militia acknowledges the concern with a nod. "We understand the confusion, and we apologize for any distress caused. The lack of announcement was intentional to ensure a realistic response. We'll take your feedback into consideration for future exercises."
Assault steps forward, attempting to ease the tension with a reassuring smile. "Your safety is our top priority. Rest assured, this drill is designed to make us better equipped to handle real threats efficiently."
The young woman, though still visibly uneasy, seems to begrudgingly accept the explanation. "Fine, but next time, at least give us a heads up. We have a right to know what's happening in our own city."
Miss Militia nods again, her expression sympathetic. "Noted. We appreciate your cooperation and your dedication to the safety of Brockton Bay."
As the heroes and PRT officers disperse, the crowd begins to dissolve, the initial anxiety giving way to a cautious calm. The young woman, however, lingers for a moment, her "bottle-glass green" eyes still reflecting a mix of skepticism and concern.
Then, she clicks her tongue in dissatisfaction, though the reason remains elusive. What is bothering her? Oh, perhaps she's a journalist seeking a story. Unfortunately, the unexpected turn of events hasn't provided her with the scoop she was anticipating. But that's not my concern, so I decide to leave and head to the library.
As I pass her, I catch a mutter under her breath, "So you guys want to hide what happened, huh?" Her words linger in the air, and a small spark of curiosity ignites within me. I look back at the woman, but she's already walking away, her steps purposeful and seemingly fueled by dissatisfaction.
"What's that all about?" I ask nobody in particular, my voice swallowed by the city's ambient noise.
The chilly wind nips at my face as I make my way through the city streets. The unsettling events of the day have left a residue of questions in my mind. What was the purpose of this mysterious drill? And why did the young woman seem so intent on exposing something beneath the surface?
o-0-o
After a while, I finally stand before the library. I push open the heavy door, and the warm, hushed ambiance within welcomes me. The librarian at the information desk glances up, and I find myself hesitating for a moment. The young woman's muttering still echoes in my ears, creating a subtle tension in the air.
With a resolve to focus on my quest for information, I approach the nearest computer and begin accessing the database, while simultaneously opening the internet.
"U-L-T-R-A-M-A-N." I meticulously type the keyword into the database, anticipating a breakthrough. However, what materializes on the screen are merely a series of western comic books. "Okay…this is not helping," I curse under my breath, the frustration evident in my tone. The Ultraman I seek is undoubtedly not a mere man in a blue skinsuit and red cape.
Frustration intensifies, I opt for a different strategy. I type 'Silver Giant' into the library database, hoping for a more specific hit. Regrettably, the results offer a list of fictional works by obscure authors, leaving me disheartened.
I sigh, reclining in my chair. The search results suggest that the library holds no information on the particular Ultraman I'm in pursuit of. Perhaps the Internet will yield more fruitful outcomes?
With renewed determination, I return to the search engine and input 'Silver Giant Ultraman.' The results flood in, but my optimism is immediately quashed. Once again, the search outcome consists of an array of fictional works, devoid of any useful information about the Silver Giant or Ultraman.
Leaning back, my shoulders weigh heavy with disappointment. There is nothing—no information that can guide me. I close my eyes, feeling mentally exhausted. It's strange; usually, by this hour, I'd be fatigued both mentally and physically from the relentless bullying and torment. Yet now, I don't sense the slightest bit of physical fatigue. If anything, this is the most invigorated I've felt since... well, since perhaps kindergarten or first grade.
Now that I think about it...
I glance around cautiously, ensuring no prying eyes are upon me. Convinced of my privacy, I power down the computer monitor and slowly roll up my shirt until the right side of my stomach is reflected on the screen.
Amidst all that has transpired, I had forgotten about the bruises that Hess inflicted on me yesterday. Strangely, while it caused discomfort then, since this morning, the pain has vanished entirely.
I stare at the reflection on the monitor, anticipating to encounter bluish skin. Instead, my bruises have disappeared. A chill courses down my spine as I grapple with the inexplicable vanishing act. It's not just the absence of pain; the discoloration that should have marked my skin is entirely gone. I touch the area tentatively, half-expecting residual tenderness, but there's nothing. It's as if the bruises never existed.
I sit there, staring at the reflection on the monitor, my mind buzzing with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. The disappearance of the bruises raises more questions than answers. How could injuries, inflicted just a day ago, vanish without a trace?
Nothing makes sense. The dream, the inexplicable possession, the cryptic word 'Ultraman,' and now the mysterious healing of my injuries—none of it adds up, especially since… since...
I turn on the monitor again, desperation fueling my search. I quickly scan the news for reports of meteor showers last night, and a couple of articles catch my eye.
"Last meteor shower of the year.
Meteor showers visible in the sky above North America.
Meteor showers give a nice end to a tumultuous year..."
I slump in my chair. Nothing useful. Again. Why is it so difficult to find the right information?
Then, a headline below piques my interest—an article about capes experiencing health problems. Intrigued, I decide to investigate further.
"All the capes in the city of Chicago reported feeling nauseous and light-headed at the exact same time—the incident happened at around 19:37 pm Central Time. No explanation is currently given as to what has caused it, but the Parahuman Response Team, the Protectorate, and the police are working together to find out the cause behind it."
All the capes in Chicago? That's absurd. Was it the work of a new cape? Perhaps a secret tinkertech weapon designed to target capes specifically?
As I scroll down, I discover similar headlines from various locations worldwide. The news articles from around the world continue to paint a surreal picture. Capes in London, New Delhi, South Africa, and countless other locations—all reporting similar symptoms at the exact same time.
"How could this be?" I whisper, my intrigue now mingled with horror. A realization dawns on me, prompting me to return to the article about the meteor showers. It can't be a coincidence, right?
The article states that the meteor showers occurred at around 20:37 pm Eastern Time—the exact same time that all the capes worldwide started to experience health issues. A chill runs down my spine. Was this the reason the Protectorate and the PRT were out in full force just now? Were they trying to unravel the mystery behind the simultaneous affliction of capes around the globe?
But, if something of this magnitude had occurred, why did nobody report it on TV or radio? I refresh the page, and then suddenly, the news article has become unavailable. I furrow my brows, a sense of unease settling in. Was the information being deliberately suppressed, or was it a technical glitch?
Determined to find answers, I switch to a different news site and search for any mention of the global phenomenon involving capes. To my surprise, there's no trace of the events I just read about—the meteor showers, the simultaneous health issues among capes, the joint efforts of the Parahuman Response Team and the Protectorate. It's as if the entire incident has been wiped from the digital landscape.
A seed of doubt takes root in my mind. Was the information even real, or was it some elaborate fabrication? I consider the possibility that I stumbled upon a hoax, but the strange occurrences in my own life—the dream, the word 'Ultraman,' the healing of my bruises—make me reluctant to dismiss it entirely.
Intrigued and somewhat perturbed, I turn to social media, thinking that perhaps eyewitness accounts or discussions might shed light on the situation. To my surprise, there's an absence of any chatter regarding the global health issues of capes or the meteor showers. It's as if the entire world is oblivious to the events that unfolded just moments ago.
An unsettling sensation gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. I find myself deep in contemplation, grappling with the bizarre chain of events that have unfolded before me. A lingering suspicion creeps in—have I stumbled upon a truth that someone, or something, desperately wants to keep hidden? The involvement of the Protectorate and the PRT in a potentially secretive investigation, coupled with the sudden unavailability of the news article, suggests a concerted effort to control the narrative.
As I begin to speculate, my thoughts are abruptly interrupted by an excruciating assault on my senses. "Agh!" I instinctively clutch my head, a searing pain radiating through every fiber of my being. It's an intensity of pain that feels otherworldly, as if my very thoughts are being invaded.
What is this? The pain is overwhelming, like a storm raging within my mind.
An image flashes before my eyes—an unexpected intrusion into my consciousness. Wait, is that me? I see myself sitting in front of the computer, writhing in agony as I clutch my head. The vision then shifts, as if I now possess another set of eyes, and I find myself moving through the library.
It keeps moving until it reaches a table some distance away from me. Sitting there, spying on me, is...
The vision abruptly ends, and with it the headache also disappears, being replaced by a surge of urgency that propels me toward the person who was observing me. I try to maintain composure, mindful of the library's hushed atmosphere, but impatience fuels my steps.
"Ueeggh…"
There she is—the woman who was questioning the Protectorate earlier. She now clutches her head and stomach, her face pale and she looks like she could fall down at any moment. I approach cautiously, my concern tempered by the realization that there's more to this mysterious connection than meets the eye.
Are you okay?" I inquire, my voice a hushed whisper, mindful of the library's ambiance. But the woman is in no condition to respond.
"I…" she begins, wheezing. "I'm fine…".
Her words falter, and it's painfully clear that she is far from fine. She attempts to push herself up, but her strength wanes, and she begins to teeter dangerously. Without a second thought, I reach out and grab hold of her, preventing an imminent fall to the unforgiving floor. She looks up at me, her eyes a mix of gratitude and discomfort.
"You're far from fine!" I say to her. "Hang on, let me go inform the librarian."
As I attempt to head to the librarian, the woman grabs hold of my arm. "I'm fine. Just slightly dizzy. This is normal for me," she says.
"Are you sure?" I ask, my concern evident in my voice. It's hard to reconcile the idea that such distress is a regular occurrence for her.
She nods, a hint of weariness in her eyes. "Yes, I appreciate your help, but it'll pass. It always does. Just give me a moment."
Reluctantly, I release my grip, allowing her to regain some composure. I hover nearby, ready to assist if needed.
The woman takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "Thank you," she says, her voice carrying a mix of gratitude and resilience.
I find a nearby chair for her to sit, and as she settles down, I can't shake the feeling that there's more to her story than she's revealing.
I really want to know why she was intensely staring at me earlier, but how should I ask her? I can't possibly say to her, 'hey, so, it's crazy, but I somehow knew you were watching me,' or something like that. Besides, looking at her, I doubt she's in any condition to answer any of my questions.
Wait a second.
A sudden realization strikes me, and I become acutely aware of just how freaky the whole situation is. But what's even more unsettling is the fact that, despite the bizarre events unfolding around me, I'm not freaking out as much as I should be. In fact, I am remarkably calm—calmer than any normal human is supposed to be.
A cold sweat drips down my back, a stark contrast to the calm exterior I'm trying to maintain. Should I just take it as a sign that I am surprisingly mature for my age? Or, perhaps it's the opposite. Maybe, it's because I've come to accept that I'm being possessed by something. It's as if my mind has acclimated to the idea that weird things would happen constantly.
I can't escape the nagging feeling that this calmness is not entirely natural. Is it a defense mechanism, a way for my mind to cope with the inexplicable? Or is it the influence of whatever entity has taken residence within me?
I gulp, trying not to let my anxiety show on my face.
"You alright? You're looking pale," the woman observes, her concern evident.
"I'm fine. I'm going to go to the cafe, you want to come?" I suggest, attempting to divert my thoughts from the disconcerting calmness that has settled over me.
She hesitates for a moment, her eyes studying me with a mix of empathy and suspicion. "No, I'm good. I'll sit here for a while."
"Oh, alright then. I still think you need to get some help," I say, my concern for her well-being breaking through the facade of calmness.
The woman offers a wry smile. "Maybe next time," she says, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness.
Leaving the woman alone, I decide to head to the cafe. The enticing aroma of coffee wafts through the air, providing a much-needed break from the craziness of the last twenty-four hours of my life. Though my original intention is to get warm cocoa, the only thing that could have made it better is if the cafe were located inside the library, shielding me from the brisk outside air.
"Shit." I curse under my breath as I approach the cafe, only to find it fully occupied. It's a shame; I was hoping to sit down for a moment and enjoy a warm drink. Oh, well, I can still have it as a take-away.
Purchasing the warm cocoa, I sip it slowly, letting its comforting warmth seep into both my mind and body.
"Ahh… This is life."
As I stand there, contemplating my next move, I weigh the options. Should I go back home? Perhaps finding a quiet place to sit first would be a better idea. I'm not ready to return to the library just yet. If a stranger suddenly stares at you, you'd be reluctant to stay in that place, won't you?
The city unfolds before me, bustling with life and stories yet to be discovered. With my warm cocoa in hand, I stroll through the streets, searching for a spot to gather my thoughts. The ordinary sounds of the city become a backdrop to the extraordinary events that have unfolded in my life.
As I find a quiet bench in a nearby park, I settle down, watching the world go by. The warmth of the cocoa cradled in my hands provides a comforting anchor, a respite from the whirlwind of inexplicable events. The gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead, and the distant hum of the city becomes a soothing melody.
The park transforms into a sanctuary, a temporary escape from the complexities that have woven themselves into the fabric of my reality. I take a moment to appreciate the simple pleasures—the play of sunlight through the foliage, the distant laughter of children, and the rhythmic pulse of life that reverberates through the urban landscape.
With each sip of the warm cocoa, a profound sense of tranquility washes over me, gently bridging the gap between the ordinary and the extraordinary. The bench transforms into a haven, a refuge where I can serenely gather my thoughts, introspecting on the strange occurrences that have unfurled in such a brief span of time.
It's a delightful experience, allowing myself to savor the warmth of the cocoa in peaceful solitude while witnessing the sun's gradual descent from the sky. The park undergoes a magical transformation as twilight hues paint the world in muted tones, creating a serene backdrop that enhances the contemplative atmosphere.
Yet, this transient peace, as enchanting as it is, harbors an undercurrent of foreboding.
The abrupt intrusion of that ominous thought shatters the tranquility like fragile glass, leaving me disoriented and on edge. I scan my surroundings, seeking the source of this sudden unease, but the park remains undisturbed, bathed in the soft glow of twilight.
Where did that thought come from, and why does it herald an impending disruption?
Before I can decipher the origin of the unsettling premonition, a guttural scream escapes my lips. The warm cocoa slips from my grasp, its comforting essence now staining the ground beneath the bench. It's happening again, another intrusion into my reality, but what form will it take this time?
A disorienting vision envelops me—a familiar old train station now transformed into a museum. Central Square, frequented by tourists, materializes before my eyes. The scene shifts, revealing the ominous figures of Victor from Empire Eighty-Eight and Rune, accompanied by a dozen fully-armed gang members. Their intentions are clear, and a chilling realization courses through me.
Are they insane? Do they intend to engage in a shootout with the PRT? Assault and Miss Militia are still in the vicinity, aren't they?
No, that's not essential. What matters now is escape. This park is too close to Central Square, and I can't fathom how far the violence would spread once it erupts.
As I attempt to stand, my mind is once again assaulted by vivid visions. Scenes of chaos and confrontation play out, and desperation sets in.
"Stop! Stop showing this! Stop it!"
Desperation propels my words into the quiet park, as if pleading with unseen forces. "What do you want from me?!" I scream, the words echoing in the serene surroundings. "What do you want me to do?" I repeat, this time with a voice barely above a whisper. "Do you want me to play the hero and stop them? Sorry to break it to you, but that's not happening. I'm not a hero, not a cape. I'm just a normal girl, and facing them means certain death. Those people in Central Square? I can't help them."
My breath comes in ragged wheezes, and I slump against the bench, grappling with the weight of the inexplicable visions that have thrust themselves into my consciousness.
"Let's... let's just leave this to the heroes. I'm sure they can handle it just fine." The words escape my lips in a breathless whisper, an attempt to rationalize and distance myself from the looming threat. But even as I utter them, a seed of doubt takes root, questioning whether leaving it to the heroes is truly the best course of action.
You will not regret it?
Startled, I immediately try to calm myself down. By now, I shouldn't have been surprised to hear a voice in my head speaking to me.
Deciding to answer the voice in my head, I reply, "I…I won't."
Are you sure?
"I'm sure! What's with you?! Why are you questioning me like this?!"
Because you want to be a hero.
The voice's reminder sends a shiver down my spine. Yes, I did entertain dreams of being a hero in the past, but the current reality is far from the heroic tales I envisioned. I'm just an ordinary girl, thrust into extraordinary circumstances. The weight of the visions, the possession, and the mysterious entity residing within me—it all feels like a burden too heavy for someone who once aspired to be a hero.
"What can I do? Tell me, what can a lone, pathetic, weak girl like me do?"
You can help.
"Right…I can't even do anything right by myself—"
You are not alone.
I fall silent, letting the weight of those words sink in.
I am here with you.
The park, once a tranquil haven, transforms into an arena of internal conflict. The voice's assurances clash with my insecurities, and the impending threat in Central Square adds a layer of urgency to the situation.
As uncertainty hangs in the air, the voice persists, We can help, together.
The idea of collaboration with the mysterious entity dwelling within me is both daunting and intriguing. A surge of conflicting emotions—fear, curiosity, and a flicker of determination—swirl within me. The visions, once a source of distress, now seem to carry a potential for something more. A partnership that defies logic but promises a way forward.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Okay, let's say I entertain this idea. How can we possibly help? What can we do against armed gang members and cape villains?"
In response, several glowing lines start to appear over my body, starting from the tips of my fingers all the way to my shoulders and feet. I stare at the glowing lines with recognition. These look awfully familiar.
As the lines weave and dance across my skin, a surge of energy courses through me, creating an otherworldly aura. It's as if the mysterious entity within me is manifesting its presence in a tangible, visible form. The park around me seems to dim as the lines intensify, glowing with an ethereal light.
Then, the lights recede into my body, leaving a lingering sense of newfound power. I grapple with this unfamiliar sensation, a blend of exhilaration and uncertainty. I feel... what should I say, powerful? The energy coursing through me suggests capabilities beyond the realm of the ordinary. It's an intoxicating sensation, like discovering untapped potential lying dormant within.
"Alright... alright..." I mutter, still trying to come to terms with the inexplicable transformation. The glow may have faded, but the residual energy remains, making me acutely aware of a latent power waiting to be harnessed.
I glance towards Central Square, the urgency of the impending threat pressing upon me. Though I'm unsure of the full extent of my abilities or how to utilize them effectively, a conviction takes root within me. Despite the uncertainties, I can't ignore the sense of responsibility that accompanies this newfound power.
"I still don't know what is going on or what I can do exactly to make a difference," I admit to myself. "But, at the very least, I think I can help save a few people."
o-0-o
A/N: Annnd this concludes the rewriting of my original draft. From this point on the update will take a bit longer because I will have to write the next chapter from scratch, and not to mention I want to also work on my other fanfic: Blue Archive: Sparda-Sensei's Chronicle. Also, Happy New Year to all of you.