I know I said I'd written three chapters, and only posted one. The next two were ready to go, but as I was finalizing everything, I had an: Oh...right, I gotta go to work tomorrow. So a slight delay later, here we are! I think, if you enjoyed the basement brawl of Chapter 14, then here's something you'll REALLY like!
. . .
It had been a matter of when, not if, Haruko would get her Vespa up and running again. Now they watched her doing doughnuts around the shop's lot, putting it through its paces, testing its reworked limits by zooming off through the Boneyard, down the runway and back. All while looking the happiest she'd been since her arrival.
"This's wonderful and all…" Naota and Rig stood in a bay door as they watched. "But now what do we do? She's mobile again, probably off to who-knows-where, to do I can only imagine what, to some unsuspecting rube she'll completely sideline outta nowhere."
"You sound like you're almost concerned." Rig chewed hard and spat. "Like some grandmother worrying about her grandkids. Huuuhh-aaguughhhshs-hmm…" Rig adjusted his vocal chords to take on a fretful, pearl-clutching and disparaging grandmotherly warble. "Oh, that Haruko! She used to be such a sweet child. Why, I remember us playing cribbage on the porch, such a good, Church-going girl she was. Now she's off with those…hooligans, with their motorcycles, and that Devil Music they listen to! Next thing you know she'll be saying she's taken with some biker vandal, smoking mare-ih-jee-wanna, and, may God forgive me…have a tattoo…"
"I'm sorely tempted to be impressed by that." Naota said as Rig transformed into a persnickety octogenarian, and back again. "But wasn't the idea to keep her here, until we could figure something out?"
"You think of anything? I sure's shit haven't."
"Ehh..well, ah…no. Not really." In the focus of tracking Craig and Clyde, plus the projects they had been on, actually dealing with the Tiger they had caught by the tail, had been far from forefront. Now it seemed like the Tiger was simply going to get up and amble off back into the jungle. "Well, there is the I.I.B. What about them?"
"What about them indeed?" Rig played with the carabiner on his belt loop. "Do we have a phone number for them, what's it again?"
"Interstellar Immigration Bureau. Remember that Commander Amarao and Lieutenant Kitsurubami I told you about?"
"Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha…sooo…negatory on them in your speed dial?"
"Big N-O, no. I'm sure my Dad does though, somewhere." Why he hadn't thought of that from the get-go felt like a 2x4 upside the head. "And he'll be back tonight, so I'll talk about it with him them."
"Speaking of your Dad, send him our way before dinner. George needs to talk with him about, rent or some such."
"Sure, can do." They watched Haruko make another pass, sitting cross-legged on the Vespa's seat, letting it drive itself. Rig remarked even he wasn't that nuts. "Maybe there's another way to contact the I.I.B. What if I say 'Medical Mechanica' out loud three times?"
"Couldn' hurt to try."
"Medical Mechanica! Medical Mechanica! Medical Mechanica!"
"Beetlejuice!" Shifty said as he walked by, headed for the office with Tommy and George. No Amarao or Kitsurubami materialized.
"So much for that. It only seems to have summoned a Wild Shifty."
"'S'okay. Worth a try. Hey, what's his story anyway?" Shifty hadn't divulged a single personal detail the drive back; except his repertoire of dirty jokes had no end. Well, and there were precisely six Skippy's gas stations between Osceola Mills and Altoona because Shifty had insisted, and was overruled by Rig's lead foot, they stop at each one for coffee.
"He's been here forever. Shifty's the only one left working that was around when G&R was relatively new; except for George of course. My grandad hired him at sixteen, and he's been here ever since. He's a bigger gun-nut than I am…"
"Say it ain't so!"
"Oh, but I do say, I do say indeed. Remember those cases he had waiting for him at the station?"
"Rifle cases, I think. They looked a lot like yours."
"Similar in color only, his are hand held Fort Knox's. They are his safari guns: a Weatherby Mark V Deluxe in 0.460 Weatherby Magnum, and, get this…you clenched, you ready?"
"Clenched. What?"
"A Holland and Holland Royal Double Rifle in 0.700 Nitro Express."
"WHAT. In the HELL. Does he shoot with that?"
"Considering the bullets are over one thousand grains, or sixty five grams, the charge fires them at two thousand feet per second, with nine thousand foot pounds of force, and the cartridge itself is four and a quarter inches long, and makes an exit wound the size of a goddamn basketball…he shoots very, very dangerous things with it. Dangerous things that need killin' so bad their ancestors will feel it."
. . .
"You've double-checked everything?" George asked Shifty for an update.
"Double, triple, quadrupled." Shifty answered, settling onto the couch and giving the office a nostalgic once-over. "Everything's exactly as I left it. You're doing an admirable job of running the shop too George. Hell, things're running so well, it's like you didn't miss me."
"Urban Dictionary called every other day asking for you." Tommy informed. "They said their contributor traffic had dropped in half."
"It's nice to know someone cares." Shifty grinned and lit up. "Really though, good to be home. I know we've got business at hand, but let me just say…the Fero System…Hunting Paradise. It'll be a thousand years before they can branch out beyond the four colonies there. You'll never find a more wild, untamed, savage and un-fuck-withable place; it's the Planet Australia. Everything is trying to kill you."
"What, even those little Jumper Mice, whatever they're called?" George was half-joking.
"Just because it isn't capable of killing you, doesn't mean it doesn't want to." Shifty had another laugh at George's look of surprise. After the laugh died away, it was replaced with a downcast sigh. "Em' and I were supposed to go hunting this fall. He hadn't gone in years, always too busy. He'd probably dash off on some oddball mission no one ordered him to do; trying to get back to the old days."
"Yep. That was Uncle Em'." Tommy agreed. "I think I got to go hunting with him once, but that was, seventeen years ago. Maybe it's me, but I still can't see what his obsession was for."
"They made him retire for a reason." George said. "Emory wouldn't quit because he was such a stubborn horse's ass, and the G.S.P.B. is a young man's game. Of the handful of Humans we've fed into that meat grinder, none of them lasted past the age of thirty; before they mentally burned out, medically flunked out, or were buried somewhere. Not even Emory. Maybe he thought he'd be the first to buck the trend, I don't know."
"Damn shame he destroyed his family trying." Shifty was deadpan.
"Well, we have intermittent contact with Mary, Greg, and Denise." Tommy looked for something positive. "Denise is hardest to get ahold of since she doesn't live on Earth anymore, but still picks up when we call. And I suppose maybe, maybe, no news from Lois is good news. I remember that last fight. It made alley cats look prissy."
"But Jeff's doing okay at least?"
"Jeff is doing, as well as, actually a lot better than we could have hoped. He's had some slip-ups, one time when he and I butted heads; that stubborn horse's ass you mentioned of his Dad. But he's learning, fast. Works really well with Naota."
"That's really good to hear. Now, about Naota. What's his story? Anything besides the file Jeff is keeping in his safe?"
"Not in the technical sense, no." Tommy said. "He's a damn smart kid, you should see him work in the shop. For a city slicker, he's adapted to our flea-bitten mountain life with no problem; riding dirt bikes, shooting, being a trailer park terrorist like Rig. Haven't gotten him to take up dip though. Yet."
"Don't you dare start him on any bad habits!" George ordered.
"Well, maybe dip ain't his thing. Maybe Naota's really a Marlboro Man?" Shifty posed the thought.
"Same for you! Don't be givin' him smokes, I mean if Shaufner."
"Killjoy. Oh, and the elephant in the room. Or, should I say…" A Vespa's engine roared as it made a low pass. "…the Alien in the room. Even before I left there was a warrant for her arrest; with a nice bounty attached. The Cowboys must be drooling like mad over that number."
"She has been reclassified as a low-priority target since her arrival; a command decision, not mine. She's actually been quite helpful around the place, when the mood strikes her and she's not napping on top of the old tire pile like some pink-furred cat." George peeked around the blinds to watch Haruko doing handstands on the seat of a careening Vespa. "But if, excuse me, when things around here turn from words to bullets, she will have overstayed her welcome. Apprehension, so says the G.S.P.B., is preferred, but…"
"I'm gonna have to help Jeff kill Miss Haruhara, aren't I?"
"Did I mention we're glad you're home?"
. . .
*Get your motor runnin'…Head out on the highway!
Lookin' for adventure, and whatever comes our way…
Yeah Darlin', go'n make it happen!
Take the world in a love embrace!
Fire all of your guns at once, and explode into space!
The richness of a hazy summer evening filled her head, up her nose with heavy earthiness, down to make full her lungs, and belted back out again as joyous song. After a month tethered to G&R and Naota's house, Haruko was mobile again. She was FREE.
Like a true Nature's Child, we were born, born to be wild…
We can climb so high…
I NEVER wanna die!
Born to be Wild! Born to be Wild!*
She cruised down the mountainside into Osceola Mills and headed for the town's center. While she waited for the light her initial excitement wore off. Thoughts her subconscious had been working on in the background slid forward to priority. Heaviest was the one she had fretted over the most: her last meeting with The Man in Black. A week later she still had not made up her mind, as the agony of decision weighed on her heart. While she had made every oath, swear, pledge and vow possible, she'd also spent two grueling years training and now six desperate years more chasing a shadow as old as the Universe itself. The reprieve of G&R had been welcome, but wasn't enough to keep the patient claws of Entropy off her neck. As much as she cherished her freedom and the Liberty that came with it, the accompanying hazards and harshness made giving in a tempting option. Wasn't that what it was all about, after all, between The Red Star of The Solar Federation, and the Galactic Republic? Choosing between Smothering Security, or Dangerous Freedom.
Now she turned left onto Curtin Street, with no destination in mind. Puttering along, she drew upon the neon lights of Grizzly's, and the smell of Old Grizz's BBQ pit where, around the bar's corner and just off the side street, a vegetarian horror smoldered. In front, on the corner front door steps, lounged in a patio chair with a stack of newspapers at ready and Old Fashioned glass in hand…was The Man in Black. And as his smile showed, he had been expecting her.
The Vespa rocked as she pulled the clutch and brake, stopping in front of his table. He said nothing, only watched patiently as she shut down and dropped the kickstand. Her heart was fluttering in her mouth, and she was sure she'd throw it up if she talked. So she leaned against her Vepsa, crossed her arms and looked down at him with a life's worth of contempt.
"I told you I'd find you when you were ready." He folded and put away the paper. "It's been a week, impressive. Most people come back on bended knee in a day or two."
"I'm not most people."
"That, I will drink to!" And he did with lip smacking gusto. "I don't believe it proper to hold business on the sidewalk. Inside is a booth with your name on it." He stood, mounted the steps and opened the door, bowing slightly at the waist to usher her in. "Won't you join me for a drink? My treat."
"Alright. One free drink couldn't hurt." She agreed and took the steps in two strides. Settled in a corner booth, hidden behind a curtain of hazy grey smoke, he sat with his back to the wall. That way ensured he could see the entire bar, all of its patrons, and the door. It also forced her to look solely at him as he smiled ever wider and said:
"Tell me Miss Haruhara. Tell me everything on your mind, in your heart."
. . .
Piddles: The Wonder Dog had been on one of his many paths in, through, and around Osceola Mills. It had been a slow day though. Slow enough he had time for a swim at the community pool; much to the amusement of the kids, and exasperation of the lifeguards. Cooled, he was back on patrol, headed north on Curtin Street. Mostly because it was part of the route, but also to get a whiff of Ole Grizz's BBQ; and maybe, just maybe, beg a few scraps of meat. What Piddles: The Wonder Dog had not counted on was the second smell, overpowering the BBQ. A stench that curdled his stomach, the evil reek of a Man in Black. Blocks away he smelled him before he saw him sitting on the steps. A yellow Vespa, and he knew well the smell of its rider, approached and stopped. Then Haruko and The Man went inside Grizzly's together, taking their smells, and conversation, with them.
Piddles: The Wonder Dog had to hear this conversation. He bounded across the road and up to the door. It only swung outwards so he couldn't push to get in, and the handle was too close to the glass to get a paw or muzzle under. Around the side, where fogged glass screened view of the bar's insides, Piddles: The Wonder Dog stood with forepaws on the brick wall and snuffed the air, straining to at least determine where the pair were sitting. Certain they were in the back corner booth, he had a location.
From previous attempts to enter the establishment, he knew the kitchen door was fiercely guarded by the Mrs. Grizzly; and her broom. Piddles: The Wonder Dog hated that broom. Around back, past the roaring BBQ pit fires, was the stack of logs that fed the fires; right against the wall. Using the convenient stacked steps, Piddles: The Wonder Dog had mounted the roof and headed for a small second story balcony. Its door lead to the bar's second story storerooms, and had a balcony door that swung inward. And to his delight, it had been left carelessly ajar. It was too risky to venture downstairs. There were too many people in the noisy, nose overwhelming kitchen; and of course that dratted broom. Piddles: The Wonder Dog had been swatted with it one too many times to risk it.
The smell of Haruko and reek of Man in Black were present again, rising up from a register in the floor. Hooking a claw onto the lever, he opened the small register to have a top-down view of the corner table. Words were too quiet and muddled in the background noise to make out. The bar was packed on a Friday evening, the dishes and pots of the kitchen were clanging, a jukebox thumped, and glasses clanked. The mish-mash of food, alcohol, and dozens of other human smells, not to mention the cigarettes, did Piddles: The Wonder Dog's nose no favors. The best he could do was watch as closely as he could.
Haruko was animated in her speech. She spoke vividly with her body movement, making many gestures and waves with her hands. What it all meant was lost to Piddles: The Wonder Dog. Commands and gestures from Rig, he understood by intimately, but Haruko's physical language was foreign. The Man was even harder to guess at. He seemed perfectly relaxed, seated deeply on his bench cushion. His fedora's wide brim covered his face from observation up above, so no emotions were observable.
They spoke for one drink. Then Haruko stood, The Man following suit a little slower. Both drew themselves to full height and squared off. This posture Piddles: The Wonder Dog knew, it was two dogs sizing the other up, to see if the other was friendly or hostile, and if hostile, if they could take the other in a fight. The Man thrust out his hand. Haruko took it in a fierce grip, both of their knuckles bone white, and shook once. Then she snapped about on her heel and departed. He returned to his seat and sat quietly for a moment. A waitress passed by. The Man in Black ordered another bourbon. Piddles: The Wonder Dog decided he had seen enough.
. . .
Dinnertime had come to the Nandaba house, but Haruko's chair was empty. Kamon had returned from State College and was grumbling about American media obsession with college football. He could not believe how every other piece of news was deliberately ignored in favor of a quarterback's workout regime or a running back's 40 yard sprint time.
"The President could come out on national TV and say to the People 'Yes, it's true. Area 51 is real, aliens are living among us, and we're building a base on Mars to match the one we've got on the Moon' and all my boss will be interested in is if Penn State will pick up the up and coming wide receiver from Montana."
"It's about priorities, I guess." Naota worked in between bites of Hi-Way. "Y'know, what's more important to you, or your boss the head editor, I suppose."
"Kamon, you've never grasped the depth and cultural importance of sports." Shigekuni reminded. "And especially here. You may have gotten away from it in Japan, but here? Yankees are obsessed, fascinated, and have seasons set up so it never ends."
"Wouldn't they, even you, get tired of it?" Naota asked, having heard different iterations of this conversation before. He knew his lines. "If you're just bombarded with sports coverage sunup to sundown, and ESPN and Sports Center is running twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, wouldn't it all just start blending together?"
"You'd think that." Shigekuni shook his head. "But you are indeed your father's son. Sports, and baseball in particular…" He put down his pizza. Naota and Kamon braced from another lecture. "Is about their elegance, the spirit of competition, a shared history, coming together of the community in a group experience."
"And to drink beer." Naota reminded. Shigekuni had been appalled to learn that facet of the Sunday baseball league, of which Naota had been unwittingly signed up for in June. Rig and Tommy played in the league too, and it was less of rigorous, serious play, and more of a few hours relaxation with a few coolers of beer on hand in the dugouts; and some baseball just happened to be played in the meantime.
"That is a completely separate discussion."
"You already know my take, but I'll say it again to get it out of the way." Kamon had his part memorized. "The majority of people's infatuation with sports is living their lives vicariously through someone else. It's a fantasy, it's role play, wish fulfillment. And before this conversation goes south, please excuse me." Kamon got up and went onto the back porch. Shigekuni wasn't ready to let him go.
"Don't you 'excuse me', me! Get back in here and explain yourself. Wish-fulfillment?! Bah!"
"Gramps, for one time, can we please let this go?"
"What?! And abandon the field, my principles?! You go get your father and tell him to face his father."
"Uh…sure…I'll see what I can do." He joined Kamon on the back porch. "Dad, Gramps is being himself and wants to argue about baseball."
"I suspected as much. Hey, sit down and talk with your old man for a bit."
"Alright…" He sensed this was important. Kamon hadn't cracked a lewd remark and was using his fatherly voice. "What's up?"
"We've been here since June, and now it's near the end of August. I'm wanting to know if you are happy living here?"
"Yeah, I am. It was a little intimidating at first, a new place, people, really having to remember all my English lessons from school, the culture shock threw me off for at least two weeks. But I'm not mad at you for moving us, if that's what you're really asking."
"No, that wasn't what I was really asking. I spoke with Mister Carson, George, before dinner. He's in many social circles in town, and is saying there are a lot of upset people right now; with everything that has happened. The explosions and fires, all those people that were poisoned, the police raids, the terrible speeches the city governments have been giving…anyway. He is worried someone, who he cannot guess, is going to do something foolish, and that might start a fight; and we should be aware of it and think seriously about preparing for such an event."
"Well, no one ever told us it would be easy living. It's all concerning, sure. But nothing to get excited over."
"What about the Medical Mechanica operation at Roman's?"
"You got me there." Naota could not deny the unease with knowing what was burrowing in and around Roman's just an hour up the road. "I think of it this way. Medical Mechanica is a galaxy wide threat. Us moving, again, will only buy time. But we will never get away from ultimately having to deal with them. Even changing planets, if such a thing is possible, probably isn't enough. So while I'm not sure how, but I think it's best to make a stand here. I mean, have you seen how many guns are in this country? If M-M wants to invade even just Pennsylvania alone, they'll need a lot of body bags."
"It'll be strange to hear, but I'm very glad you are happy here; and similarly glad you don't want to leave. I asked a lot of you to come here and leave your friends, school, everything, and start over. That some things, like Haruko and M-M followed, is unfortunate, but you've handled it with the patience of a monk…and for that, I'm incredibly proud."
"Oh, wow. I, hadn't really thought much of it, y'know. 'S'no big deal. But, that means a lot, it really does. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now…the other reason I wanted to talk to you." Naota did not like the look in his father's eyes. The grown-up, paternal tone was melting off, it had been a well-crafted mask.
"Yesss…?"
"It's about you, and Haruko…and what you two are doing while I'm not here…"
"Oh God. Not this."
"Now I know, that you are a young man, and you are, as Gramps put it, your father's son. And do I ever know what that entails."
"Dad, what're you doing? We were having a moment."
"Look at things from my viewpoint. I'm thinking: Gramps can sleep through a typhoon. Naota has no interference from me, as I am in Penn State, and he has Haruko all to himself every night. And, I know he's of that age, the same age I began to develop tastes more, heh-heh, adult, in nature…"
"Ohhhh…whyyyy…this isn't happening…Dad, please…"
"Well, what exactly DO you two do every night? I'm not asking for details or blow-by-blow. You and I never had 'The Talk', and I just want to make sure you're…"
"If I could get a bot to come through my head right now I would do it, I swear; and don't think I wouldn't."
"I'm just trying to connect with you my boy, and learn more about you and the people you interact with. We're still having our moment, this's part of male bonding."
"N-no. No it's not. This's just you being weird."
"Like I said, I'm not asking for the real nitty-gritty; unless you want to share, or have questions. That's what I'm here for. I just want to make sure that whatever it is you two do in the dark privacy of your room, is safe and consensual, and..."
"Nothing, we do nothing. There, is, is that good enough? We, we sleep, okay? That's it."
"Look, I know you're mature for your age, and there are many parts and aspects to maturity. You're not in any trouble, I'm not going to yell at you, and I'm not going to tell anyone else; and I won't embarrass you in front of Haurko. I can be totally discreet."
"Y'know what? I'm gonna go inside and pick a fight with Gramps about baseball. It sounds a lot less awkward than this conversation."
"Now, hang on. Let's, let's not get crazy here…"
"Hey, Gramps!"
"Yeah?!"
"Naota, please don't."
"Dad says baseball is overrated?!"
"He said WHAT?!"
"Son, what have you done?"
"You gonna ask me anymore weird questions about Haruko?"
"Okay, you win this round." Kamon conceded with an amused smile. "Well played. Okay, I suppose there's no more avoiding it. Let's go inside and argue with your grandfather."
. . .
The briefings were over. Troopers were receiving their own individual assignments in their assault stacks, which would be collected and assigned to Task Forces. Cole announcing he was in charge had raised a few eyebrows, but no one had protested. Only one thing had been strange and it came from The Man. He had passed out several photographs of the same person, a young teenager that appeared Japanese in ethnicity. He instructed each team to look for the photo's subject, and when queried for 'Dead or Alive' he said:
"Dead? That's aiming a little low, isn't it? I want it to be like he never even existed."
. . .
Haruko finally returned to Naota's house at eleven, just as he returned from Rig's. He found her standing at the top of the stairs, a cloth bundle in her hands.
"Where did you disappear off to? We waited a good hour for you, but you never showed; we even played Foo Fighters. You missed out." He passed her onto his room and glanced at the bundle along the way. "What's that?"
"I needed a break; to think. Anyway, this's something you need to see."
"Ohhhh…kay. Bring it in then." She followed and closed and locked the door behind her. She then knelt and unrolled the bundle, showing a small pile of metal. "The contents of the scrap bin?"
"In a way. Remember those parts I dropped that were out of spec?" She waved her hands over the metal. "That's what these are."
"Drinking fountain parts, yeah. And ones you, now I see, broke on purpose. Are you still hung up on this?"
"Give me one minute of your time."
"Don't waste it." Haruko began fitting parts together, several small pieces, pins, plates and springs. These guts fitted into the drilled out tube steel sections they had made, the long tube at the front, the shorter tube under it, and a piston like rod and spring inside it. Finally, after fifty six seconds, Haruko tightened the last screw, inserted a magazine, racked back the bolt and placed at his feet what they had built hundreds of in the past week. It was without doubt a rifle.
The rifle was an amalgamation of several other designs. It had a fixed stock resembling that of a Galil. A squared and rectangular receiver of a Thompson submachinegun, the magazine release, grip, and trigger of an AK-47, while the magazine itself was the large box of a BAR. A massive bolt charging handle that would look at home on an M1919. The long-stroke gas piston and op-rod of an M1 Garand, and the unsophisticated sights of a Sten submachinegun. It currently lacked a fore stock or grip, but the front of the lower receiver had been cut as to encourage its use as a handhold. And, now that Naota looked at it, he realized why they had cut key slots and installed two tabs at the end of the barrel: it was so a bayonet could be affixed. A fitting exclamation point to the business end of a 0.30 caliber rifled eye.
"So, by my math, we've built about five hundred of these things." Haruko looked between a drumbstruck Naota and the rifle. "You gonna pick it up, say something, sit there, what?" The rifle was heavy, about ten pounds. He threw it to his shoulder, it balanced fairly well. The sights were crude but easily visible and easy to aim. The skeleton stock wasn't atrocious. The magazine, for being a rectangular slab-sided box, looked like it could hold twenty rounds of 7.62x39mm; AK-47 ammunition. It fired from an open bolt, held open by spring pressure pushing on a dropping sear, which made for a rough trigger pull. There was no safety or selector lever; fully automatic only. The bolt handle and ejection port were far enough forward a left handed shooter could operate it. For a moment, between flashes of confusion, surprise, and indignation, he also felt pride having built a cheap, no frills gun that looked like it would continue loyally firing even after running it over with a truck.
"I don't know what we should do. We're in a box here." He turned the rifle over in his hands, thinking. "With it looking like the cops and city work for Medical Mechanica, I can't really call them. The I.I.B. I have no idea how to contact…the A.T.F. maybe? We could try them? But…I'm sure there has to be, there's no good alternative, there has to be some good reason for this. Right? Maybe it would be best if we talk to Rig about this first thing tomorrow; we'll have to come up with…"
"Hold up, hold up, hold…and back right the hell, up." Haruko even raised her hands to order his halt. "Just who is this 'we' you keep bringing up? I'll be real. This rekindling of our dysfunctional dynamic, I'll freely admit it's messed up, and it's not me, it's you, was pure circumstance. My baby's purrin' like a Mack truck again. I'm gonna use tomorrow and Sunday to scare up a spare Gundam Module somewhere in this town, but find it or not, on Monday I'm outta here. So you can figure out what to do about your neighbors, I'm no longer in the picture. Do you get that?"
"No, frankly I don't. Why bring this up at all? What do you care, you're going to be gone in a few days, so you say."
"Had to be done. Apparently I'm the only one around here smart enough to see, and call, the bullshit for what it is."
"I really don't believe that. It sounds like another opportunity for you to prove to everyone how smart you are and rub our noses in it. I know it's nothing to do with any form of morals, principles. It's just you and your self-importance, doing what you do best, making yourself feel better and looking out for you yourself alone."
"Easy for you to say. You've got family, friends, a home, this happy, cushy life you're wasting by just schelping through. I only look out for me because I'm all I have left."
"Ideas don't cost anything, there's no store you have to go to. You too could live a happy cushy life if you paid attention to how it's done. I realize I must correct myself. You did have your rant about empathy, how the capacity to feel anything above basic greed is a sin; so I do suppose you have ONE thing to stand on. But man, that's a foundation of sand if I've ever seen one."
"And correct yourself again, Monsieur Au Contraire." She had one hand on the doorknob. "I do have one thing, a principle you would call it. Consistency. You probably think of me as some manipulative, parasite eating my brain, crazed harpy…but at least my story is consistent. Am I not the same, exact same, Haruko you met four years ago? Your friend, Rig, and his merry band of misfits, weave a story weaker than unspiced curry. They may pretend to be a bunch of toothless cousin fuckers, but honestly, are you BLIND?! They can take apart, reverse engineer Medical Mechanica robots, have remotely hacked into computers like they open the newspaper, just happen to have a device that by passes a phone's security and makes perfect copy of its contents, regardless of OS, version, or brand, and…have you forgotten the several thousand sets of steel knuckles we built? Dollars to fuckin' doughnuts those paperweights are still in the shop somewhere, right now. And you still obviously haven't asked yourself why they are all so cool with knowing there's a Medical Mechanica garrison an hour up the damn road?!"
"Well maybe for once it was a welcome change that someone actually wanted to help me, and 'till now have asked for nothing in return." To say he was upset, pissed, peeved, or even beside himself, would underscore Naota's blowing past his boiling point. "I've finally got something good going, I was half a world away, and actually making some progress. But you show up, and instead of being grateful, have to take a big, steaming crap over all of it! You just had to bring this up, didn't you? This rifle? Couldn't leave me be, happy and ignorant. Nope, since your life is a jaded, moral-less, suck fest where no one's allowed to feel compassion or think of how others feel, you can't bear the shame of being the only well of unhappiness in the room, in the galaxy, so you've gotta drag everyone down to your level because misery loves company; and that's the only way anyone will give a flying fuck about your existence and be willing to suffer the agony of being anywhere near you."
He ran himself out of breath and waited for rebuttal. Naota actually felt like he was getting rather good at this, ripping into Haruko. It wasn't something to be proud of by any measure, but the schadenfreude soma was too strong to pass up. And then a twinge inside his head, and a surge of panic. Had he overdone it again? How long did he have, would he at least make it outside? The feeling passed, just a migraine from the stress; probably.
Clink.
The chain link on Haruko's wrist moved once. Only once, and just enough for it to rise perfectly horizontal, then fall back down. But he knew it was enough for her. Seeing his reddened vision cooling back to normal, he had never seen her look so genuinely sad. His last tirade had slapped her face blank, something told him he'd hit an inner chord that strummed in a way that all she could do was stare. It was the empty face of someone so pulled down with the weight of their world, they couldn't even form an expression, their depression, memories and life sucking the energy needed to even frown or form a tear. For once he'd finally nailed her dead on the X-ring and gotten her to shut up, and felt a right bastard doing so.
"Hear that?" She quickly looked at her wrist and back to him. "I'm sorry but, I gotta go." She picked up her guitar, slung it over her shoulder, leaving all of her things still strewn about the room, and departed without fanfare. As the Vespa's motor faded away, he slumped onto his bed. He'd shouted all of his energy out.
"Oh…fuck. What have I done?"
. . .
"Y'all stayin' here? It's getting late." At two in the morning, Tommy was ready to go home. Rita, George, and Jeff already had retired for the night. Josh, Johnny, Mike and Canti were readying the Industrial Bot for its Saturday morning walk-about tests. Shifty had gone home earlier, exhausted from travelling.
"We don't need sleep, we need answers!" Mike declared as they put the Industrial back together.
"Mostly it's just we're on a roll, so no point in stopping." Johnny elaborated. "But do you think we can count this as overtime?"
"I don't see why not. You'll have to ask George." Tommy shifted a definitive answer. "What about job satisfaction?"
"Job satisfaction don't pay rent."
"True. Well…I've got nothing going on tomorrow. Need an extra hand?"
"If you wanna stay, sure. Do you think Shifty would be willing to come in?" Mike tapped one of the tie rods in the Idustrial's left shoulder. "It's one of the last parts to fix, but he's the only one of us good enough with a welder to get it right."
"Rig hit that shoulder harder than he realized." Tommy inspected the divoted and cracked piece of metal. "I'd hate to wake him up, but I'm not sure what time zone Shifty is in, or what his travels have done to his circadian rhythm. I think the Fero System's main planet has a thirty six hour day? He could be wide awake right now." Tommy made the call and found Shifty was indeed up and about. He agreed to be there in a few minutes, not wanting to wait until morning to see two M-M bots in working order.
The G&R crew continued to work into the morning, unaware of forces moving in the shadows just outside the light of the shop's outdoor flood lamp. Dive-by patrols and attempts at binocular observation from a distance, had established a general pattern of who worked at G&R and when. That evening however, the police had recalled all of their observation squads on stakeout, all hands on deck were required. This meant the State Patrol did not know that for the first Friday night in a month, G&R Fabrication and Cranes was not empty, but fully staffed.
. . .
Atomsk had been fully rested for days by that point, but didn't quite know what to do or where to go next. A few days lounging about would do no harm, it wasn't as if he had a job to report in to, or rent to pay. But now he knew he couldn't stay. The N.O. had shifted, the energy flow that permeated the universe as an invisible web, and one of its infinite strings was fluttering. Atomsk felt the anomaly as we feel a pressure drop before a thunderstorm. N.O., like all energy, is in a constant state of change, or desiring to change; never created or destroyed, only transferred in varying ebbs and flows. Species older than Earth, such as Haruko's, had evolved rudimentary perception of N.O. and basic manipulation. Those races older still, before the first Temple of Syrinx was constructed, lived in it, swam the N.O. flows and used them to effortlessly travel the vast universe at a whim.
N.O. is unique that it carries markers, trace signatures of where it had been, and the actions and work done using it. A beginning reader could gain rough pictures of the markers: motion, entropy, heat, and light, and so forth. Advanced readers like Atomsk delve deeper: type and source of actions, differentiate between heat types and sources, determine growth, birth or the final release of death, and even events surrounding the N.O. as it was transferred. While some signatures didn't have a specific deed attached, trial and error reading over the millennia gave good indications. Atomsk readily recognized the N.O. flowing around King Coal and Central Pennsylvania was drenched in the marks of War. It was time to leave.
. . .
At four in the morning Jerry unlocked the door to Hi-Way Pizza. Daily fresh pizzas called for extensive prep time, warming up the ovens, setting out all the newly delivered ingredients, and bracing for the long line always gathered out the door by eleven o'clock. It wasn't the easiest way to run the place, but people kept coming back. On happenstance, Jerry looked out the front window and across his brand new parking lot, and beheld a blood-chilling sight. First a State Patrol cruiser, one of the Dodge Pursuits, drove by as a forward scout; that wasn't what had Jerry scared. It was ten minutes later, when three Cougar model MRAP trucks rumbled by, each with a gunner manning their rooftop hatch turrets. Jerry considered himself no expert, but even he recognized an M240 machinegun when he saw one. Four more cars followed, two SUV's, two cruisers, then last a large prisoner transfer van. Jerry, a longtime family friend of the Carsons atop the hill between Osceola Mills and Philipsburg, had been asked to watch for this exact scenario. He fumbled with the kitchen's phone, hoping someone would be awake to answer.
"G&R Fabrication and…" Tommy Carson answered and sounded like he'd been up all night. Jerry didn't wait for the salutation to end.
"Tommy! Oh thank God! Three of those tank trucks just rolled by, and five other State Patrol cars. They've got machine guns on the roofs of those MRAP things, and I think they're headed your way!"
"…So be it. Jerry, start the Phone Tree. God Bless you, and Godspeed. I'll see you on the other side." Tommy hung up. Jerry put all pizza prep aside and began dialing a set of memorized numbers as fast as he could.
. . .
The lights came on at four in the morning and my bed was damn near flipped over as Rita shook me awake.
"Get up! Get up! Damn you Jeffrey Raymond Carson, GET UP!"
"What, goddamn-fuckin'-all-damned-to-Hell WHAT is wrong with you woman?! Have you lost your mind?!" I don't wake up well at 0400, okay? Be honest, most of us don't.
"The State Patrol is on its way! Tommy said you need to get the Nandaba's and bring them to the shop."
"Oh, well…SHIT." There was no time to get dressed, time to open my safe or throw on any armor. Enough to grab a shirt, my revolver with just the six shots in its cylinder and no spares, the spare Nandaba house key, and hop-run my boots on before sprinting up the road. Everyone from the shop was moving vehicles, equipment and doing their own practiced parts, as was I.
Haruko's Vespa was missing from their driveway, which I didn't have time to wonder at as odd. There would be no time to knock, wait for them to wake up, come downstairs, explain what was going on, then walk leisurely back to the shop. I had at most five minutes. By the Gods I didn't flub unlocking the door and made my way upstairs, first to Kamon's room. We had given and taught him and Shigekuni both a Ruger P90 for just such an occasion. Kamon had also requested his own Walther P38 and was beside himself when he got to fire it for the first time. Different strokes. He and Shigekuni I woke up with little issue and they hurriedly dressed as I went to get Naota. Three minutes, and counting…
. . .
Naota awoke by being spun out of the lower bunk, dragged out with the covers and landed flat on his back. Looking up, he saw Rig standing over him in his motocross boots, underwear, a wife-beater, and his revolver in hand. Understandably, Naota's first words were:
"What in the fuck is going on?!" Rig hooked him under the shoulder and hauled him straight to his feet. "Why are you in my house, with a GUN?!"
"Medical Mechanica has sent the State Police to kill you, your family, and me and mine. I am taking you somewhere more defensible." With a vice lock on his arm, Rig steered Naota onto the upper landing. Kamon and Gramps were already awake and half dressed. They were also armed, Shigekuni with a Ruger P90, and Kamon with a Walther P38; both with spare magazines in their back pockets. Before he could process that, he was thrust a black vest that looked like a basic version of Rig's plate carrier armor.
"Put that on now. It's Type IIIA, sorry for no rifle plates, but it'll do." Rig had opened the hall closet, stood on the lowest shelf, and pushed up the closet ceiling to reveal a cavity. From this he pulled down the first black vest, then three more, putting the last one on himself. "Follow me, now." They were halfway down the stairs when the phone rang.
"Should I?" Kamon began to ask. Rig elbowed him out of the way and answered. He held the phone away from his ear so they all could hear.
"Defend at location. Scouts headed your way. Return to shop as deemed prudent and capable." Naota recognized the voice, of all people's, as Rita's. Rig hung up immediately and turned to them; pointing back to their rooms.
"Back upstairs. Now." He followed them and turned to the full length mirror hanging on the wall. With a series of tugs and crumbling of drywall, Rig pulled the mirror off the wall and the sheetrock panel behind it, revealing another cavity. This one housed a Remington Versa Max shotgun, two belts of shells, and eight loose ones lined up on a beam. Rig donned the belts over his shoulders, then loaded the shotgun and released its semiautomatic bolt with a metallic snap that rattled the otherwise silent house.
"Rig, what the hell is going on? This, this isn't funny anymore." Rig extended Naota his GP100, holding it by the barrel to offer its grip. "I, I don't want that! I want to know…"
"People are coming to kill you. Take this. I will need it back." With a trembling hand, he took the revolver, nearly dropping it but remembering to keep his finger off the trigger.
"Dad, what's going on? Why aren't you and Gramps freaking out?"
"Oh, we are freaking out, don't let me be misunderstood." Kamon admitted, stiffening his back to stand taller. "I'm not sure what's going on, but we need to trust Jeff and do exactly as he says. There are some bad people that want us dead, and he's going to help us."
"But how do you know that? Do you have any idea what I've got in my room, what he's had Haruko and I building?! For fuck's sake, we've been making…"
"Naota. SHUT UP." Rig was in his room as it overlooked the driveway, and was peering through the blinds. "You are panicking and it is not helping. Control your breathing, count to ten, I don't care, but get it together. Ahhhh…shit." He walked over to address them. "Here's what's up. The State Patrol has this house still belonging to George, so they think he, Rita, Tommy, or I, or all of us, might live here. Or, they might know about you living here, I dunno. Either way, they are coming to kill anyone they find here, and then raid my house and the shop. You are going to have to fight for your lives. You will probably have to use those guns, you will probably have to kill someone. I make no guarantees, but your best chance is to do exactly what I say, when I say it. If I am killed, make your way to the shop. If I am wounded and cannot move under my own power, LEAVE ME BEHIND, and get to the shop. AM I CLEAR?" They all nodded yes.
"Good. Kamon, Naota, take position in the bathroom, its walls are armored. Shigekuni, post at your door and cover me, I'll be right here." Rig shut off all lights and stood in the deepest shadow at the top of the stairs. From there he could see both the living room and kitchen, and anyone coming from the front or back doors. "If anyone gets past me, shoot them until they stop moving. Not once, not twice, until they stop moving or you run out of ammo. If you run out, beat them to death. Then exit out the back door, then along the ridge to the shop. Repeat that back to me." Each did and Rig seemed satisfied. Ten seconds groaned by, and then gravel in the driveway crunched.
"Any last thoughts, words?" Rig's whisper seemed a shout to Naota. "Now's the time."
"I love you both, weird and goofy as you are." Shigekuni said. "We disagree, but you're my boys."
"Same here, I love you too Dad." Kamon and Naota both said. "Give your old man a hug."
"Dad, why us?" Naota asked as he and Kamon embraced, possibly for the last time. "Why me?"
"Some questions have no answers, bad or good. Just none at all. I'm sorry."
"Don't be, it's not your fault, I just wondered. Hey…hey Rig?"
"Hmm?"
"You're, you're a good friend."
"Hold onto that, don't thank me yet. You're a good friend though, no doubt. Okay, we squared away?"
"I'd just like to say for the record, that the American Navy, Army, Army Air Force, and Marine Corps, all tried to kill me, and none of 'em succeeded. So I'll be dammned and dishonored if some po-dunk cop takes me down."
"Sergeant Nandaba, I admire and envy your spirit." Rig said, then waved his hand down at the floor. "Okay, dead quiet." With that order, the house turned tomb dead silent. Naota could hear each pump of blood through his ears as he crouched behind the toilet. Actually not a bad spot, he conceded, as his nerves were conspiring to make him vomit. He looked where he'd never expected for reassurance in a situation like this. Kamon had his Walter P38 up and ready, finger safely off the trigger. In his waistband at his back, was tucked a Ruger P90, spare magazines for both in his back pockets. Kamon was determined and ready to go down fighting.
'Well, if your anime watching and manga reading otaku Dad isn't freaking, what business do you have being a quivering wimp?' Several steadying breaths calmed him a little, so he could settle in for a seeming eternity of waiting. Then he nearly shit his pants as the front door creaked open.
. . .
The plan was to send a four man squad to the Carson's secondary residence. The rest of the column was ten minutes behind them. Armed with suppressed UMP-45's, the four men would scout the convoy's route to make sure all was clear, then proceed to the Carson house; all residents were deemed hostile. After completing this objective, the squad would move to the Carson's main residence and shop, setting up an overlook to spot any waiting ambushes. Then the main force would arrive and assault on the house and shop.
At 0400, previous drive-by patrols had determined all occupants would be asleep. So the squad leader ordered the front door first approached with a lock pick gun. To their amazement, the front door swung open at the touch. One by one, they entered, ideally hoping to dispatch each occupant while still sleeping in their beds. They had no flashlights or lasers attached to their guns, just a set of night vision goggles; there was no point in risking waking someone up with an errant laser beam or flash of light. Ahead and to the left were the stairs. All was proceeding according to plan, but they forgot to factor for Tyson's Law. As they rounded to the stairs, the Hit Squad took a heavy punch in the mouth.
Rig had positioned himself so only the shotgun, his trigger hand, part of that arm, and a sliver of his head were exposed; all still in deep shadow. He crouched and braced his left hand against the wall to use it as the shotgun's rest. Set in his stance, he froze, left thumb on a button embedded in the fore stock. The front door creaked open and the floorboards squeaked under heavy boots. The first officer mounted the stairs, the second a step behind, the third at the corner, the fourth just inside the door. At this moment Rig pressed the button and took up the triggers' slack. A pulsing strobe flashlight affixed to the shotgun lit the stairwell in a seizure inducing display, blinding the officer's night vision in retina searing whiteout. Then the shotgun boomed.
If the stairwell had been bright with the strobe, it was high noon when the muzzle flash filled the confined space. Nine pellets of 00 buckshot greeted the first officer. Two struck his UMP-45, one on the receiver, the other on the ejection port, jamming the gun. One hit his body armor with no effect. Three impacted his left arm at the joint, ripping off a baseball sized chunk of muscle and rupturing the artery in his armpit. Three hit his head, one through the left jaw that wrenched half his face 90-degrees sideways, and the other two his goggles. These sent shards of plastic, glass and the two lead pellets, into his eyes and frontal lobe; all killing him instantly. He fell backwards onto the second man, dropping both onto the landing at the foot of the stairs. Second Man was sprayed with First Man's blood and had the wind knocked out of him.
The Third Man rounded the corner and was blinded in turn. Again the Remington thundered, separating the man's left forearm from his elbow. In debilitating shock, the man did not cry out, only slowly slumping to the floor. One hand wriggled on the floor as its severed nerves carried out their last signals, and the other locked onto his gun's grip. By now the Second Man was back up to a crouch and fired, low, ripping the stairs to shreds. A third flash and concussive blast shook the house and Rig put 00 into the man's shoulder, left arm, femoral artery, and split his kneecap. The impact jerked the man's aim sideways and his last shots chewed through the stairwell's wall, out the landing wall, and into the armor around the bathroom. Four dull Per-Klunks sounded next to Naota's head and a chip of drywall flaked off; a round had nearly made it through.
Having seen the first three walk into a narrow valley of fire and lead poisoning, the Last Man blind fired around the corner. His rounds were the right height, but too far to the left. Rig sprang back from his post, putting himself in the corner with Naota directly opposite the wall behind him, and turned the shotgun's flashlight off. Then, he seemed content to wait.
Up the stairs came the Fourth Man, boots thumping on the shot-up steps, equipment creaking, and bloodthirsty breath panting. He was gonna kill ALL the rotten bastards, and as revenge, he was gonna do it slow…He swept his corners, but was looking about chest high, not down, until too late. Rig was practically at his feet, on his back, curled so his shotgun was between his knees. If the Remington had been fitted with a bayonet, Rig could have impaled the officer. Instead, with a contained BAH-WHUMP, Rig gut shot him. The buckshot pattern decimated the Fourth Man's liver, stomach, and small intestine before turning his kidneys into an Englishman's breakfast and shattering his spine. Exiting matter and night-black blood fanned across the wall and repainted Naota's bedroom door. The disemboweled officer teetered backwards, collapsing against the wall, then sliding down to sit on the floor, leaving a grisly streak.
"…Ev, everyone okay? SoundOHFUCK!" B-THOOOOOOM! Even with his guts blown, the Fourth Man had tried to raise his UMP-45 one handed for a last try. Rig fired again, the shotgun jerking as he did not have a firm grip. Instead of hitting center of mass, Rig hit high. Naota couldn't see the impact, but the sound left nothing to imagination.
"Everyone okay?" Naota couldn't hear jack-diddly by now. All he perceived were his eardrums demanding the pain cease, with high pitched ringing. Kamon was pulling on his shirt, so he wobbled to his feet and was half-pulled into the landing.
"Everyone's okay." Kamon answered for them. Rig grunted, he was feeding the Versa Max shells. The house returned to deathly quiet again, except the k-thuck, k-thuck, k-thuck of Rig pushing shells into the shotgun's tube. The clock on the wall said the entire shootout had lasted fifteen seconds; while feeling like an eternity.
"Good. Shin', Kamon, stay there. Naota, your room, guitar, now."
"My guitar, the bass? Why?"
"NOW." As Naota moved, a sense of morbidity forced him to look down and left on the way. From the teeth up, most of the cop's head was gone. A charred, mashed trough of the mouth, some skull fragments, and a popped loose eye, remained. The rest had either gone out and up the wall, or been blasted through the new hole into his room. The carpet, his bed and sheets, and some of the far wall were flecked with red. The Rickenbacker 4001 however, patiently waiting on its stand, was pristine as ever.
Now Rig slowly descended the stairs with them waiting at the top. Halfway down, the Second Man, curled on his side with the stump of a left arm tucked under him, tried to bring his gun into play one-handed. The recoil and weight was too much to control and his burst put the kitchen stove permanently out of commission. Rig put another shell into him as the UMP-45's bolt locked open on an empty chamber. The rest of the Hit Squad had already expired.
"Okay, time to move. We've got no time, they're gonna be on top of us any second." Rig lead them out back, around and away from the mess at the stairs that was bleeding over into the living room. "Shigekuni, can you run, how fast can you move?"
"Not very." Shigekuni admitted.
"You, you." Rig directed Kamon and Naota. "Under the arms, carry him." They put his arms across his shoulders, lifting him off his feet, and followed Rig at a respectable trot. As they neared the shop, only when the rocks in the lot cut at his feet, did Naota realize he wasn't wearing any shoes.
"Get in here, let's go, on the double, hurry up!" Tommy was at the door of the shop, dressed to kill in a plate carrier and battle belt similar to Rig's, both the same deep green. He held an AK-47 in his left hand, and slung over his right shoulder was all of Rig's gear.
"As fast as Kek fuckin' wills it Tommy!" Rig ushered, more pushed, the three of them through the door at the same time. "Okay, okay…all, present and accounted for Tommy. Hurk…hang on." Rig rested the Versa Max against the wall, took two massive steps to the garbage can, bent over it, and hurled.
. . .
On ordinary Saturday mornings, 4:05AM would scarcely see anyone awake; Jerry non-withstanding. Thanks to him, Rita, and then seven company bosses, it would see everyone, their brother, cousin, and aunts and uncles too, on the move. Each person on the phone tree had five people to call, who each called five people themselves, and so on. This ensured it only took mere minutes for the 3,000 volunteers of the now activated Irregular Pennsylvanian Army to get out of bed. If they had not already sent their loved ones to safer grounds, these modern Minutemen gave one last goodbye before bolting out the door, equipment on their backs, rifles in hand, and promised they would be back soon.
Those with equipment issued from Overwatch carried it. Those who not so equipped improvised. Remington 760's and 700's, Mossberg 500's, Remington 870's, Ithaca 37's, AR-15's, civilian models of AK patterns, Ruger Mini-14's, Simonov's Carbines, a surprising number of M1 Garands, K98's, and Mosin Nagants, more lever action rifles than can be named, some CETME and G3 patterns, a handful of M1A's, and even the budget minded carried Hi-Point 995 carbines. This is to say nothing of the pistols carried as sidearms.
Each man that walked, ran, drove, or slunk quietly into that early morning gloom knew he was setting off down a road with no means to turn around. His mortal coil, his family states away, his friends from work, his race, species, and planet, rested on his shoulders. But still he ran forward. He could very well have to shoot, kill, maim, burn, hack, stab, crush, beat, bludgeon, and eviscerate his enemies, in order to protect everything he loved. He was in the front row of a macabre murder show, potentially with his role to be not living to see the end; or even a hand in their failure. But still these frightened, flawed, and brave, Pennsylvanian Men ran into the rhododendron and mountain laurel, into the unknown.
. . .
*Born to Be Wild - Steppenwolf
I feel we have not quite reached our 'Colonial Minutemen facing British Regulars on the Lexington Green' moment, but we are certainly close.
The question I'm sure is on everyone's mind: what did (or didn't) Haruko and The Man agree on, what accord was made or broken? Poor Piddles: The Wonder Dog did his best but as of now, we can't be sure. All we know is our story is getting kinetic in an awful hurry. Do whatever math you have to do, but be sure to factor Haruko makes no bones about what's really important to her.
Kamon and Shigekuni I hope to work with more; I really hope to work with all the characters more as a matter of course! But just because Kamon has cultivated some grey hair and a little more worldly wisdom doesn't mean he isn't still his old self. "Nao's just like me, so he must be doing it...I know he's doing it...doing, doing it, Fooly-Cooly-ing!' Sound familiar? :D
I think the combat speaks for itself. There's nothing I can add here.
Sorry again for no Medical Mechanica or Red Star scenes, maybe next time! Until then, thank you very much for reading!