It's just past midnight when she slips quietly through my door, a soft smile on her lips as she pulls off her boots. She crosses the room, her bare feet making a soft, rhythmic sound against the hardwood floor. "Blessed evening, Guardian Blaine," she murmurs, her voice low and teasing as her arms wrap around my neck. Instinctively, I pull her close, feeling her body melt against mine. "Blessed evening," I whisper back, brushing a kiss against her earlobe. She sighs, tilting her head to the side, offering me full access. I don't waste the moment. My lips trail down the side of her neck, leaving a path of soft kisses and playful nips, savoring the feel of her skin under my mouth. Her hands slid down to my belt and chuckle, pulling away slightly.
"Oh no, you don't," I laugh, stepping back just enough to keep her hands at bay. The tension between us is still there, but I need answers. "Jezebel's...what was that about?" I ask, my voice more serious now.
She sighs, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. "Can't we talk about it after?" she offers, her hand slipping lower again, but I stop her, keeping her at arm's length.
"June," I say firmly, giving her a look that says I'm not letting this go.
June crosses her arms and plops down in a kitchen chair with a frustrated sigh. She's clearly unhappy about the shift in mood, but I need to know what happened. I settle in the chair opposite her and wait for her to break the silence.
Finally, she meets my eyes and shrugs. "I was trying to meet someone so I could pick something up," she says, her voice casual, too casual.
"Picking something up?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You're going to have to be more specific."
She shifts in her chair, avoiding my gaze. "I don't know exactly what it was. I never got the chance to get it," she admits, sounding more frustrated now. "I was supposed to meet someone, but Fred..." She trails off, her jaw tightening at the mention of his name.
"Fred," I repeat, my voice hardening. I lean back, running a hand through my hair. "And who sent you to get this...whatever it was?"
Her arms cross tighter over her chest, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I don't think I should say."
"June," I warn, leaning forward, my voice low. "I can't help you if you keep things from me."
"Her arms go across her chest. "Your an Eye, nick," she counters evenly.
"Not a very good one," I laugh. "At least when It comes to you," I add softly.
She softens at that, her walls dropping just a bit. "It was Mayday," she confesses quietly.
I let out a low breath. Mayday. Of course. The weight of the name settling between us, heavy and thick. Gilead considers them terrorists, but really, they're just freedom fighters from the old USA. Most of my trades in the black market come through them via the Martha Network. They run fast, they run hard, and too often, they get burned. It's not the safest group to be in cahoots with, and the risks... hell, the risks are through the roof.
I groan, running a hand over my face in frustration. "June, they're reckless," I say, my voice low but tense. "They'll get you killed!" The words grind out of me, the thought of her getting caught up in their chaos twisting my gut.
"Nick, I have to do something," she says, her voice steady but full of emotion. "If I don't, I feel like…the flicker of hope I've managed to hold on to will go out."
I meet her gaze, the weight of her words hitting me hard. The desperation in her eyes, the resolve. She needs this. But it terrifies me.
I take her hands in mine. "June," I begin, struggling to find the right words. "I get it. I do. But if you get caught... if something goes wrong, there's no coming back from that. They don't exactly have the best track record regarding informants." My voice falters slightly, betraying the fear I'm trying to keep hidden.
"Maybe, but at least they are doing something," she says, pulling her hands from mine.
"But at what cost?" I demand.
June stands abruptly, her movements sharp and restless. She starts pacing, her voice growing louder, edged with desperation. "Nick, we have to fight back! We have to do something! My life—it's not a life. I'm nothing but a body to them, just here to conceive children again and again until I'm used up!" Her voice breaks, cracking under the weight of her anger and grief.
She doesn't stop, her words coming faster, harder. "And what's the reward for being a 'good vessel'? Becoming a Martha, where they'll work me to death, or worse, being sent to the colonies where I'll die anyway, just slower—skin rotting off my bones as I clean up their damn mess!" She stops pacing, turning toward me, eyes blazing with fury and pain.
Her words hit me like a punch, raw and honest, filled with fury. I can feel the hopelessness in every syllable, the agony of being trapped in a system that treats her like nothing more than a tool. She's right. Every word she says is true.
I stand, feeling helpless. I want to comfort her, but knowing that nothing I say will ease the fire that's burning in her right now. "June..." I start, but the words catch in my throat. " You can't fight if you're dead," I manage.
"Okay, Nick." she spits. "If not Mayday, then who?" she demands..
She's got me there. If not them, who will take the stand? Who will fight back? I close my eyes, "I don't know," I admit.
She plants her hands on her hips, her expression set with unwavering resolve. "That's not good enough, Nick. I'm doing this," she says, her tone firm, steady—unyielding. There's no hesitation, no room for negotiation. She's made her decision, and nothing I say is going to change her mind.
I stand there, watching her, and the realization hits me like a punch to the gut. This woman, this small, fierce woman, is stronger than me. Braver than me. She's had everything taken from her—her body, her choices, her freedom—and yet here she is, fighting back with every ounce of herself.
Meanwhile, I've had years to stew in my hatred for what I've become, for the regime I helped build. I've despised Gilead, despised the system that controls every inch of my life, every breath I take. But what have I done to change it? Nothing. I've hidden behind my role, telling myself I'm just surviving, but she's right. Surviving isn't enough. Not anymore.
I look at her and feel a surge of admiration mixed with shame. How did I let it get this far? How did I allow myself to become part of something I despise so deeply? She's willing to risk everything, and here I am, still standing in the shadows, still afraid to take the leap.
Rita's words flutter through my mind again, reminding me that June is her own person, someone who has earned the right to make her own choices. I have to respect that, even if it terrifies me.
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "But... can you at least tell me before you plan to do something like this again? Please?" I plead, my voice low, the vulnerability clear. " I won't stop you. I just... I need to know so I can help, or at least... prepare," I add, my words barely above a whisper. It's all I can offer her.
She pauses, her eyes softening just a fraction as she meets my gaze. I can see the struggle in her, the need for freedom warring with the understanding of what she's putting me through. I don't want to hold her back, but the fear of losing her—of seeing her taken away—is eating me alive. She doesn't seem pleased with my compromise, but she nods.
I wrap her tightly in my arms, pressing a kiss against her forehead. "Thank you," I whisper, my breath warm against her skin.
She melts into me, her tension easing a bit as she leans into my chest. I feel a slight shiver run through her body, and instinctively, I run my hands along her back, trying to soothe her.
She tilts her head up, her eyes gleaming with a familiar sultry look. "Think we could take a shower? You know, to warm up?" she asks, her voice low and teasing.
I can't help but smile at her. "Whatever you want," I whisper back, my voice soft but filled with desire. Taking her hand, I lead her into the small bathroom, the door clicking shut behind us as the world outside fades away for a moment.
With a lingering kiss and whispered wishes for safety, she slips out my door around three am and heads across the yard and back to the main house. She usually stays until just before dawn, but she has an early start in the morning and has asked Rita to wake her.
My sleep is fitful, filled with faceless Mayday operatives and the images of handmaids on the wall. I can never seem to get close enough to see if one is June, but my gut tells me she's there. A limp lifeless form against a gray sky. I wake feeling drugged and out of it, but I pull myself together and go to the house to start the list of chores laid out for me today.
I enter the kitchen to the sound of scrubbing; I round the work island and find the baskets of root vegetables Rita stores under it scattered about.
I bend down and find the Martha crouched under the table, scrubbing the floor. "Blessed Morning," I offer. She glances over her shoulder; irritation radiates off her. "Or not?" I offer, going for the coffee pot.
Rita snorts, and the scrubbing sound returns. "It'd be more blessed if I still had my Dyson," she grumbles.
I bite back a smile. I know what she means. The loss of imports and the "return to traditional roles" really means doing more with less.
I take a quick sip of my brew and set it down. "What can I do to help?"
She scoots out from under the table, bringing a bucket of dirty water with her. "I'm done, but If you could put these baskets back, you would save my lower back," she states, dumping the dirty water into the sink.
"Yes, mama." I agree. I lean over to lift the nearst one, it weights a freaking ton. "Wow, how did you get these out from under there," I grunt, shoving it back in its slotted home.
"Shoved them from behind with my legs," Rita says, grabbing her own mug and pouring coffee. "My version of pilates," she snorts over the rim.
I chuckle. "Well, it's cheaper than LA Fitness," I joke, moving the remaining baskets back under the table.
"Yeah, if only there weren't so many other trade-offs," Rita mumbles.
I raise an eyebrow, brushing off my pants. The longer I know her, the more outspoken she becomes. I love it. I sigh, finishing the last of my coffee. "Anything else you need?"
She shakes her head. "No, but thanks for the help."
"Not a problem. Probably the easiest part of my day. Got tree-trimming duty—all day," I grunt.
Rita smirks, shaking her head. "Guess we should've read the fine print on that Gilead contract, huh?"
I snort but glance toward the door, wary. Words like that could cost us more than just our jobs. Rita waves off my concern. "They're not around. It's too early."
I go to rinse my cup, but she takes it from my hand. "Go on. Trees await," she says, shooing me toward the door.
With a shrug, I head out. "Blessed day," I toss over my shoulder.
Rita waves me off, turning on the faucet. "Yeah, yeah. Go in grace, or whatever," she mutters.
I laugh all the way out to the garage.
I can't stand arbor work. Too many damn trees and it takes forever. I hate getting smacked in the face by branches, not to mention climbing a rickety ladder with no one to spot me. Anyone with status hires arborists to deal with this stuff, but not here. This is just another reminder of who's in charge, a subtle power play that grates on me.
I finish trimming a stubborn maple, and my stomach growls. I check my watch—lunchtime. Climbing down from the ladder, I stash it in the garage and head inside, already picturing the meal I'm about to grab. But as soon as I step into the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks.
June is sitting at the table, an untouched plate of food in front of her. But it's the gash on her forehead that freezes me in place. My heart plummets.
"What happened?" I ask, tossing my garden gloves on the credenza by the door.
June's blue eyes lock onto mine, filled with a mix of exhaustion and something heavier. "She found out. About the Commander."
Jezebel's. Of course, she did. Fred wasn't exactly subtle. My jaw tightens as the realization sinks in, and I can feel my hands ball into fists at my sides. Serena's fury—it always finds its mark.
I take a step closer, trying to keep my anger in check. "You okay?" I ask softly, worry threading through my voice. It's her third head injury since she arrived here. Why the hell do they always go for the head?
She looks up at me, and I can see the struggle in her eyes. Her lips part, then close, like she's weighing whether to say it. Finally, she exhales softly. "I'm pregnant."
The words hit me like a tidal wave. They echo in my ears, bouncing around, refusing to .It takes a moment to register, and when it does, I feel the air rush out of my lungs. "What?" I ask, the disbelief heavy in my voice.
"She had a test," June continues, her voice steady but tense. "Must have come from the black market or something."
My heart pounds, the weight of her words crashing into me all at once. She's having a baby—our baby. Fred crosses my mind for a split second, but I push the thought away. I know, deep down, that it's mine. Fred's had two handmaids, a wife, countless affairs, and trips to Jezebel's, and none of those women ended up pregnant. It's not him. But it's more than that. It's the way she's telling me. The way she looks at me. This isn't about Fred. This is about us.
Without a second thought, I move to her side, kneeling beside her on the cold tile floor. My hand instinctively reaches for her, for the small space where a new life is growing. I can barely breathe, my fingers trembling as they rest against her stomach. It's overwhelming—this sudden, immense surge of emotions. Fear, joy, worry—all tangled up in the same breath.
"Don't," she says, her voice wavering. "Please. It's terrible," She cries.
Terrible? My chest tightens as I look up at her.I suppose I should feel bad or regretful, but those emotions are nowhere in sight. All I can think in this moment is that in a few months, there will be a person in this world who's part of both of us. A person I will fight for and protect with everything I have. I won't wish it away. ":No, it's not," I whisper, searching her face for something to hold on to. She finally looks down at me, her eyes sad but soft. Slowly, her hand rises, hesitant, but then she places it over mine on her stomach. Our thumbs intertwine, a small gesture is the beginning of something monumental.
The sharp click of heels on the tile snaps me back to reality. Mrs. Waterford strides into the kitchen, but I don't let go of June. Not yet. Serena instigated this. She set it in motion that day she forced me to... forced me to hurt June. The thought makes my stomach turn. And now, knowing what's happening, I realize it all started that day. What's happened between June and me since then, it doesn't change the fact that this—this pregnancy—is on Serena. Her twisted control. The least she can do is give us a moment to process the weight of it all.
June's hand tightens over mine, and I know she's thinking about the future—the uncertainty, the danger. But for now, in this stolen moment, it's just us.
Finally, I stand, briefly letting my hand linger on June's shoulder before moving into the kitchen.
Serena has the decency to be slightly awkward at her intrusion into our private moment. "Offred, get your coat, please," she orders, her eyes never leaving mine.
I look directly at Serena, refusing to feel ashamed of the moment June and I just shared. My voice is steady, almost too casual, as I ask, "You need a car?" I make it sound like an everyday errand, but my eyes never leave hers.
"No, thank you, Nick," Serena says, trying to look somewhat contrite as if she's aware of the weight of what she's done. But the fleeting moment of decency doesn't last. Her lips press into a tight, thin line, and she slips back into her familiar, cold demeanor. She's about to get everything she's ever wanted by taking it from us, and the reality of that burns deep in my chest. "I've made other arrangements," she states, heading for the back door.
I watch as Serena waits impatiently for June to get her cloak and leave the kitchen. My hands curl into fists, my mind racing with a thousand questions. Why didn't she ask me to take them? Where are they going? What kind of twisted game is Serena playing this time?
A hand on my shoulder startles me. I hadn't even noticed Rita had entered the kitchen.
"Where are they going?" she asks, her voice low but concerned.
I shake my head, unable to answer. I have no clue what Serena's up to.
Rita mutters in disgust, her eyes on the door. "She didn't even let her eat," she says, voice tinged with frustration. "She needs to eat."
I glance at Rita, my voice low. "Serena told you?"
Her eyes soften with pity, and she nods. "This morning. She needed me to adjust the food for the pregnancy. Not that it mattered," she mutters, collecting the untouched plates from the table.
I step forward, grabbing a dish to help her clear. "It's not the Commander's," I say quietly, my gaze fixed on the plate.
Rita pauses, then takes my hand and squeezes it. "I figured," she says, her voice heavy with sadness.
"I'm going to get them out." I say the words like it's that simple; like I haven't already seen what happens to people who try to escape this place. I tell myself I'll do whatever it takes, but what if whatever it takes means never seeing my child? What if it means dying before I even get to hold them? The thought should scare, but the truth is, I'm willing to trade my life for theirs. I'm already living on borrowed time, walking this fine line between obedience and rebellion. If I'm caught, it'll be the wall for me—but I can't let June and our child suffer for my cowardice. I'd rather be dead than live with that.
She looks up, startled, her eyes widening. "Nick…" She says, leaving the unsaid heavy between us.
I shrug, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "My life for theirs, it's more than a fair trade?)"
I don't see June again for the rest of the day, and she doesn't come over that night either. I'm guessing Serena's keeping a closer eye on her since finding out about the baby. My lack of concern earlier—Serena catching me with June in the kitchen—might have put me on her radar. Going forward, I'll have to be more careful and more in control of my emotions.
The Waterfords need to think I'm resigned to my fate, that I accept their claim over the child as their own, that I won't fight it. I need to play the part of a good Gileadean soldier, someone they can trust. They can't suspect I have my own plans for this baby, or for June.
Sleep completely alludes to me tonight. My thoughts drift from June to the baby growing in her, over and over again. I worry about a child born here under their doctrine... it turned my stomach. After a couple of hours of tossing and turning, I give up trying and get out of bed. I pace the length of my apartment. The only solution is to get them out. Its a gamble, I could loose everything that has come to matter to me. For years, I've kept people at a distance. It was easier that way—easier to survive in a world like this. But then June came along, and everything changed. Now, the stakes were higher than they'd ever been. And for the first time in years, I cared about something enough to lose it..
My thoughts run wild, but slowly, a plan begins to formulate. I laugh as the main component falls into place. Mayday. The very people I told June to be wary of. They are our only chance.
When the sun rises, I'm already awake and dressed, thoughts of June running through my mind. I want nothing more than to find her and talk to her about this monumental change in our lives. The weight of it sits heavy in my chest, and I need to hear what she's thinking, what she's feeling. But I can't. Not yet. There's a meeting with Pryce today; missing it isn't an option.
I take a deep breath, trying to push my emotions aside, knowing that every decision I make now will have far-reaching consequences for June, the baby, and me.
Toast wrapped in a napkin and grabbing a cup of coffee, I head out to our designated meeting spot, an empty warehouse in a more derelict part of town. I'm the first to arrive. I get out and go inside to open the garage door. I've just pulled my car in when another enters behind me. Pryce gets out, stretches, and groans a little. This is odd. He never shows any sort of weakness.
"Blessed Day, Commander," I state, coming to attention.
Pryce waves at me, "At ease."
I nod and take in his rumpled attire. "Long night, sir?" I inquire.
Pryce leans heavily against his car. "And morning."
He pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket, shakes one out, then offers one to me. I take it, light it, and then light his. He takes a long draw, the smoke curling around him before he clears his throat.
"The handmaid on the bridge... that whole debacle has taken up more of my last 24 hours than I'd have liked," he sighs, taking another draw of nicotine.
I wait silently for him to continue. "OfWarren was to be salvaged this morning, but the handmaids failed to cooperate."
I hide the panic I feel in my chest.I didn't hear the salvaging bells. When did this happen? I wonder. "Sir?" I ask, letting a little surprise color my words.
"The other handmaid, they refused to stone her," he says tiredly.
FUCK.
My hands clenched so hard behind my back that they practically feel like they're bleeding. "Next Steps," I ask, careful to mask the panic rising in me.
He takes one last pull, then drops the cigarette on the ground and grinds it out. "Oh, they will be rounded up this afternoon. The Aunt assures me an appropriate punishment will be enforced upon them,"
June. Fuck. Words start tumbling out of my mouth without consent. All I know is I need to protect June and the baby. "Sir...uh, I don't know if it's been reported yet, but the Waterford's handmaid has been filled with His divine light," I state.
This earns me a raised eyebrow. "And you know this, how?"
"The Martha, she said she was happy to be finally cooking for two," I lie.
Pryce looks exhausted, and his chin falls to his chest. "I'll make sure the Aunt knows," he states, standing up straight.
Commander Pryce is a man of his word, so I know he will do as he says, but it does little to placate the panic attack I'm on the verge of.
"Anything else I should know?" he asks, rubbing his forehead.
My thoughts are scattered and not fully focused, but I manage to push through. "Commander Waterford has had me take them to Jezebel's… twice." The words hang in the air, and I sense an opportunity. I decide to go for it. "Perhaps, sir, given the handmaid's condition, a closer eye on Commander Waterford might be warranted?" I suggest carefully testing the waters.
Pryce sighs long, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considers my words. I can't tell if he's intrigued or suspicious, but either way, the seed is planted.
"I will have a one-on-one with Fred this week," he states. "Any more trips with the handmaid to Jezebel's, contact me at my office immediately," he declares.
It's not what is needed, but it's more than I hoped for. "Yes, sir," I nod.
Commander Pryce pushes off his car and moves to get into the back. "Under his Eye," he salutes.
I nod, "Under His Eye," I return.
The drive back to the Waterfords feels like an eternity, every second stretching out unbearably. I push the car harder, blowing through stop signs and red lights at clear intersections. My pulse pounds in my ears, my grip tight on the wheel. I have to see June before the Eyes arrive before everything falls apart—every second counts.
As I pull into the driveway, the Eyes van follows in after me. I punch the steering wheel and curse under my breath but quickly gather myself and step out of the car to greet the Eye in charge. Thank God it's someone I know. Someone who owes me a favor.
"Guardian Grant, Blessed Day," I state, my mask fully in place.
The older man nods, "Good Day, Blaine. We're here to collect handmaid," he says, handing me a copy of the orders.
I glance down at them, giving them a cursory look. "Yes, I'm aware. I've just come from a meeting with Pryce." I tell him.
"Oh, good. I hate when this kind of thing causes friction with the in-house branch. I'm not trying to step on your toes, ya know." Grant says.
Yeah, sure, Grant, it's the pissing contest I'm worried about.
"Oh, no. Not an issue. Ah..." I pause for a second, for effect, "But uh, It might be best if I go up first. That one," I say, pointing up at her windows, "She's quite the spitfire. You and your guys don't need that nonsense today, right?" I rhetorically.
He chuckles. "Anything to make this easier. Yeah, I'll give you five," he nods.
I slap him on the shoulder. "Thanks," I say. With that, I dart across the yard and into the house.
As I rush up the flights of stairs, I imagine the panic she must be feeling at the sound of the sires and the arrival of the van in the driveway. I find her in the window, looking out. She stands, her eyes pleading and full of fear. I step into her space. A protective hand finds her lower abdomen. I hear boots on the stairs drawing closer. Five minutes my ass. I bring my lips to her ear and whisper all the words I have time for. "Just go with them. Trust me," I plead.
Boots are in the hallway now, so I step away from her. She nods, understanding, and straightens her dress. Grant comes in with two of his men. They take her by the arm. She only hesitates for a second, but with a glace from me, drops her defenses and goes with them willingly. Rita is in the hallway, tears freely flowing down her face. June pulls to a stop, giving her a quick hug. Grant, while he didn't give me the five minutes he promised, he is gentle with June, letting her say a quick goodbye.
Rita disappears into the bathroom, and I follow the parade down the hallway, stopping at the landing. I watch out the window as they escort June down the sidewalk and into the back of the black fan.
As the van pulls away, vomit creeps up the back of my throat. I rush to the bathroom, where I lose my breakfast in the toilet.
I feel a hand on my back, "You okay?" Rita asks through her tears.
I lean over the commode, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. "Yeah," I mutter, running a hand across my mouth. I straighten up and go to the sink to wash out my mouth.
Rita flushes away the evidence of my dread, and I look over at her and find her with a package pressed to her chest. Her wet eyes dart from mine to the package and back again.
"June, she asked me to get this from behind the tub and to hide them," she sniffs. "Please, don't turn me in," Rita begs, suddenly afraid of me.
"What? Rita, I'd never do that," I stammer. I'm dumbfounded that she would think such a thing, but then again, she just witnessed the handmaid get marched out of the house by Eyes. Trust is a rare commodity. I level my eyes at her. "Rita, that will never happen. You are my friend, and I will protect you if I'm in the position to do so," I say evenly.
"I'm sorry," she cries, flustered.
I place my hand gently over hers, where she clutches the letters tightly. "I understand, Rita. Don't apologize," I whisper, my voice steady but soft, trying to reassure her. The weight of the situation presses down on both of us, but there's no need for her to carry any guilt.
Relief washes over her face.
"Now, let me see that," I request, taking the bundle from her hands. It's a large stack of letters bound together with twine. I read a few lines from the top document, it's a testimony from a handmaid in Oregon. How the hell did June get these?I wonder, but then I remember the trip to Jezebel's. Maybe this is the package she was supposed to get. I've not been able to talk with her since the baby bomb, so maybe someone got them to her. I don't know. I pass the pile back to Rita. You have a place where you can keep these hidden?"
"Yeah. I know every nook and cranny of this house," she says nods. "Nick... is she going to be okay?" she asks, shoving the letters in the hem of her apron..
I nod. I don't feel as confident as I let on, but that is my burden, not one Rita should have to carry. "I was told the Aunts are just supposed to scare the handmaids. No one is supposed to get hurt, especially June," I tell her. "I told them about the baby," I confess.
She lets out a breath and nods. "That's good, Nick. You were right to tell them. It will keep her and the little one safe."
This makes me feel a tiny bit better.
"Do you know when they will let her come home?" she asks.
I shake my head. "No. But I was thinking- as I broke every traffic law in Gilead to get here - that maybe she won't have to come back here," I say quietly.
Rita's eyes snap up from fiddling with hem of her apron. "You have a plan?" she asks with baited breath.
"The start of one...maybe." I bite the inside of my cheek; it bleeds, filling my mouth with the taste of metal. " I'm not saying more about it; I don't want you implicated," I add.
Rita bobs her head in understanding. "Nick...if she doesn't come home, what do I do with these?" she asks, pointing at her hem.
I shake my head slightly. "Let's cross one bridge at a time," I say, rubbing my forehead. "I've got to head out for the rest of the day. There are some meetings to set up. If anyone asks, say I've been called in about the failed salvaging, okay?"
Rita fidgets, clearly uneasy for a moment, but then nods in agreement. As I approach the door, she offers a quiet, "Good luck."
I give her a brief, grateful nod and step out. Time to stir up some trouble.
