Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Eighteen: Micah

8:06 PM July 22nd, 1899

They moved briskly and thoughtfully; Micah had to grant them that—they were like well-oiled machines. Javier and Lenny fashioned makeshift silencers—the former with Mary-Beth's black fichus and the latter with the new wool jacket Trelawny had bought at Rhodes (cheeky bastard had swindled something off of him after all)—and shot two of the guards. Dutch knocked the third out with a quick punch and shot the last one with his own sloppy-crafted silencer. It did the job. From there they moved like the wind, falling into ranks seamlessly; Sean, Charles, and Javier darted across the cherry-red main deck and entered through the first door, while Dutch, Lenny, and, reluctantly, Micah rushed to the second deck, hopping the white stairs two at a time.

"Hurry along, Micah!" Dutch called to him as he stalled up the stairwell to the black door that awaited him. He felt, for lack of a better word, lazy. Like a child neglecting chores. He didn't want to do this, he just wanted to kick up his feet and go back to Shady Belle… Goddammit, it isn't fair!

"Shit, it's locked," Lenny said, trying the knob twice.

Micah felt a wave of satisfaction strike him. Good. Let's just go back, then. We gave it our all, no shame in trying.

Then Dutch flipped his gun over and brought the butt hard against the knob, hard enough to shoot it off, and the door popped right open like it was greeting them. Welcome in, welcome in!

They crossed into the tight hallway, it had golden streaks, but it was mostly green, like the soles of the second deck—putrid green, pale green like a nauseous ghost. Calm down, Micah, he thought, it'll go to hell soon enough, just be patient.

The massive chandelier blinded them like Mary-Beth's tits (Micah was guessing of course, although he'd studied her pretty closely and had never seen her whip them out at all, so he imagined they were a blinding white) as they walked on the balcony of the cardroom.

Jesus, it was something special, even Micah had to admit. Looking down like a bird from above, he saw over a dozen circular card tables arranged like a row of quarters, in addition to the gargantuan chandelier, there were individual ceiling fixtures that emitted a spotlight directly onto the card table, casting light on the green felt and shadows on the player's heads and chests—probably to patronize those who couldn't hold their tells to save their lives. Encompassing the world-class poker players were cozy lounge tables planted underneath the balconies, aside from the classy yellow lamp stemming from the table, they were left in total darkness. Speaking of white tits, classical portraits studded the gold and maroon walls, leading down the double stairwell to the walls next to every lounge table. For a moment, Micah was so enchanted by this place's resplendence that he forgot he was supposed to be enraged.

Then Dutch called him over like a master to his dog, and that rage came boiling back.

"Gentlemen," Dutch greeted before grabbing a policeman and throwing him off the balcony, where he landed on a game of Texas Hold 'Em below, splashing the red and black cards into flight. There were five more guards on the balcony and Javier and Dutch shot them all, not bothering with the silencers this time—they were indoors, no one would hear. More gunshots went off from the lower level, but they were drowned out by the panicked screams of the gamblers, their wives and mistresses, the casino workers, and the policemen who tossed their guns away and fell in line—didn't get paid enough to die in the line of duty. They ran to the exits, only to be cut off by three more masked men waving guns at them.

"Good folk!" Dutch pronounced, rising and balancing on the balcony's guardrail, making himself as big as he could. He spoke quickly, trying to rest their fears and impulsive thinking before they had time to realize they outnumbered their attackers and revolted. "We don't have no quarrel with you. I'll say that again: we don't have no quarrel with any of you. Matter of fact, when this is over…"—he pointed the barrel of his gun toward the casino cashier at the edge of the room between lounge tables—"we are goin' to let you have at all the money the casino's got in there. Consider it restitution for the stain we are inflicting on your night and the fear we are causin' you." This seemed to coax most of them into a relaxed state; these weren't exactly the sort of people who would charge at men with guns anyway—rather pay someone to do that—and the more Dutch talked, the more resigned they became, like this was some regular nuisance everyone had to do—like taxes. Don't blame me, honey, the man is being polite, what do you want me to do?

"We have business with the pit boss… where is he… ah!" He saw Javier had captured the man, disarming him of his small pistol and holding him at gunpoint. "Great work, Mr. E!"—he turned back to the still anxious crowd—"Fun fact, folks, did you know when you say 'Mister… Eee fast enough it sounds like 'mystery'. Just found that out, ain't it nifty!" He motioned for Micah to follow him and lept down, stalking to the double staircase with his very unhappy comrade. "Anyways, good folk, our business with this here pit boss has got nothin' to do with any a' you, so fear not. This headache should be over in less than ten minutes." He motioned once more to Sean and Charles who were on opposite sides of the card room and started moving forward, herding the people tighter together. "My friends are going to ask you kindly to move closer together—you in the back, get in there!" The people hiding behind the lounge tables rushed forward to the pod forming in the center of the room along with those on the stage and behind the bar. Dutch and Micah were on the gorgeous golden stairs now, halfway between each floor and right underneath that star of a chandelier, illuminating like angels. "This is a precautionary measure to ensure there aren't any stray fools unaccounted for—we do not have any quarrel with you, but if any of you go running at us with your fists closed… Well, our hands are pretty much tied." That elicited a few gasps among the group. "But that won't happen because I know you folks are reasonable, smart, decent people. I promise we'll be outta your hair in no time, you have my word as a God-fearing man."

Dutch grabbed the pit boss by his large black bow tie like leading a horse by the reins. "Mr. E, Mr. B, with me."

They followed him past the large huddle of people, past the topmost green poker table, to the back rooms hidden to the right of the staircase. Upon disappearing into the quiet, familiar mint green hallway, the interrogation began. "What's your name?"

"Fuck you," was the mannered response from the pit boss. Dutch felicitated such intricate wording with a punch to the face. Javier came over and held the man up so Dutch could let go and deliver a well-winded blow to the man's chest this time.

"Your name?"

"M-Mosley," he groaned out.

"Mosley? That's a lovely name. Here's what's gonna happen, Mosley: you're gonna take us to this riverboat's hold and show us where Guido keeps all his money… or kept, I should say."

"I don't know… what the fuck you are talkin' about." Dutch reminded Mosley to speak true with another round of beatings. Micah, however, believed him. Not a big deal, he thought, no money here, that's just fine. There's plenty of money in Blackwater, after all. You can just tell me where it is and I'll get it, and you, all of you will be so, so pleased with me…

"Alright," the liar whispered, moaning in agony. "There's a staircase just down this hall, it'll take us."

"Fantastic!" Dutch celebrated, moving in the direction pointed out.

"Well, it-it could be a trap…" Micah murmured.

"Huh?"

"D-Dutch… maybe we should just call this off…"

"Don't use names, you idiot!" Javier berated.

"Whatever," Dutch sighed. "We'll be gone tomorrow."—he gazed at Micah with cold, narrow eyes—"Don't you lose your goddamn nerve now. Let's go!"

Shit shit shit. It was falling apart. All of my plans. They reached the end of the hall, descending down the laborious stairs. What do I do? What do I do? Leaving my bandana off didn't alert the law, trying to dissuade Dutch didn't work… shit, what now?

They hit the bottom floor and unlike the stunning decor and red, gold coloring that flattered the deck above and matched with Mosley's own suit, it was practical. The walls matched the outside hull: black as night, but the dominating hue about the room was brown. Dozens and dozens of brown crates and boxes filled up the empty space, ranging from various degrees of sizes, yet looking mostly the same in shape—like Russian tea dolls.

"It's just this way," Mosley the Bastard, the Plan-Ruiner, said, leading them further and further away from Blackwater.

Ideas flowed into Micah's unsound mind faster than he could shoo them away. Maybe this is good? Maybe I shoot Javier, knock out Dutch, find the money myself, and bring them both back to camp? I'd be a hero then, wouldn't I…? No. No. I fuckin' wouldn't.

They kept on the heels of Mosley the Whoreson, and Javier was whistling. Actually fucking whistling. It's still Lenny's plan and Dutch's execution, Micah concluded, I'll just be the brute that carried it out, the 'hat with a gun'. The hat felt heavy on his head then, like a crown made of brass, only the spikes sprouted up to the ceiling, making the damn thing weigh a hundredfold what it should. Micah almost laughed as the realization dawned on him. When Morgan broke me out of Strawberry, it was Dutch I paid back with a tribute. Dutch, not Morgan. Cuz Morgan was just the brute. The hat with the gun. Just like me.

Mosley stopped shamefully in front of a series of very large boxes, looking down as he spoke. "This is it."

"Great, Mosley, thanks for your help." Dutch clouted him hard in the face, knocking him out and throwing him to the ground. "You two got a knife? Crack that sucker open."

"I… don't… have one," Micah said in a daze. It wasn't true: he had a splendid silver hunting knife stowed to a sheathe on his belt; it still had dried blood from his earlier usage of it.

"Ain't your day of bein' useful, is it, son?" Dutch laughed. Laughed.

I ain't your goddamn son!

"Javier, help me with this." They unsheathed and plugged their knives into the thick planks, both of their blades failing to catch the first time, Dutch needing two more times to get a good hold on the wood before they started pushing to pop the lid open.

Fuck Dutch. Wants to make me a workhorse? A brute? That's why he gave me the hat; it weren't a promotion, it was a uniform. A way for him to take one look and know 'Oh, need someone who won't think, who just does? This is the guy.' Well fuck that! He can crack his own damn crate, I ain't like that. I ain't a goddamn brute! I ain't goddamn nothing!

The sweat was pouring down his twisted features now, his face was wet, his neck was soaked; it was the damn hat—so heavy it took all he had to hold it up. Yet hold it up he did every day, never complained once, because that's the kind of man Micah Bell is: selfless, honorable. Willing to bear pain for others so they can live clean of it. He was very much like Jesus Christ in that way. Hell, they even looked slightly similar…

Dutch wants me to be a brute, don't he? That's why he keeps shutting Blackwater down, he doesn't want me to think, just wants me to serve. Because he knows that I'm smarter than him. That Blackwater job was more money than this gang had ever even masturbated to the thought of! Who found it out? Me!

Salty moisture leaked into his eyes, stinging them into a blurry squint.

He knows. Knows I could lead the gang if I had the chance. Hell, I should lead them, who needs him? Not me!

We'd be better off… without him…

The gun found its way into his sweaty, greasy hand. He breathed deeply as they struggled against the box, oblivious. He raised it and aimed it, until he was staring down the barrel at Dutch's raven hair, partially blocked out by the red and white bandana tied a scant distance (not even half a day's journey) above his neck. As if by magic, the gun was cocked, but not by Micah, no, certainly not by Micah. His finger was on the trigger.

So easy… one motion.

Then Mosley came into view, flourishing a second pistol he'd concealed in the back of his pants (huh, good trick, Micah thought), aiming it right at Javier. Impulsively, Micah rerouted his gun in a flash and had it locked onto Mosley before his thumb had even yanked the hammer back. But he didn't fire. No, no, unlike with Marston, he bit his instinct down and let the man go to work. Fuck Javier. Fuck Dutch.

It happened so slowly Micah thought time had taken a day off: Mosley dropped his left eye so his right one could aim down the barrel of his M1899 pistol and squeezed his finger on the trigger.

Bang!

Dutch shot Mosley in the face, clean through his right eye. "Jesus, Micah. Really isn't your day at all, is it?" he mocked, laughing again. Laughing…

And Micah laughed too. Laughed because he was a joke, because no one cared. He kept laughing and saw Javier and Dutch were looking at him funny; like he was a freak. I am.

The pair turned their back to Micah—that was the gang's favorite pastime—and got cracking on cracking the wooden crate open. Finally, the lid splintered off and they tossed it away from the top.

"W-wait. This can't be right," Javier said, groping the contents of the box: planks of white varnished wood, and nothing else. "Not a goddamn cent!"

Micah exhaled deeply, feeling a euphoric smile carve into his visage and spread to the rest of his body in an excited shiver. That's it… that's it, baby…

"Patience, friend, patience. It's one of the virtues," Dutch said, and he ran to the posterior of the box, lifting it up so it would flip over and the goodies would fall right out. And lo and behold, buried beneath the strips of ivory timber were hundreds of neatly folded green bills.

No! No…! The shiver that ebbed through Micah remained, but it was no longer of delight, it was of all-consuming rage—the kind that would make the red drain out of Satan.

"There's a few more boxes. Let's get to work."

The process was the same for every coffer: Javier and Dutch worked on opposite sides, slitting their knives through the gap where the side panel and top met, lopping the lid off, and riffled through them like foxes to a rabbit carcass, separating the white from green until there was a hill of fifty-dollar bills.

"We did it Dutch," Javier spat out ecstatically, as he pulled three large duffle bags, distributing them evenly to their small gathering. "We're really gonna pull this off!"

"You should know by now—I keep my promises, Javier." He raked money in his bag, frantically, excitedly. They all were, save Micah, who didn't have the energy for it—he was so tired, so defeated.

"No more yellow wallpaper. Green from now on!"

"Indeed!" he tittered. "No more fireworks, or picture shows, or buy on credit,"—Micah had no idea what they were on about—"just foreign women, cheap land, and all the pretty orange mangoes you can dream of!" His bag was now sufficiently stuffed, and he glanced towards Micah's lack of initiative. "Dammit, Micah! It ain't hard." He leaned over, feeding Micah's bag with the rest of the money in one quick push.

The trio moved to the stairs, hiking up at rapid speeds. Too rapid. This is all moving too damn fast! Then they were back in the cardroom, the voguish scarlet and gold a nice shift in aesthetic.

"Well, folks, that concludes our business here!" Dutch proclaimed to the circle of hostages in the center—he was so beguiling they probably didn't even consider themselves that. "I commend your patience—it's one of the virtues."

This can't be happening, Micah thought as he trailed Dutch along the room closer to the exit, to damnation. This can't be fucking happening! His resigned laziness had been usurped by a manic anxiety. His heart was beating a mile a minute, and beating so hard his hands shook. The twenty-thousand dollar bag he carried seemed to weigh twenty-thousand pounds, and he struggled to keep it above his toes.

"I see Mr. M had done as promised: the casino cashier is now open to you, to do with as you will once we have gone. I thank you and will miss your attentive company." Dutch was at the second-to-last poker table now. Micah was lagging behind, but even so, he was

It wasn't just! I can't let them do this! I won't!

"As… I think it was Evelyn Miller who said it: 'Parting is such sweet sorrow'. But part we must!"

I have to stop this. Have to—

Then he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. It was the black whore from Doyle's tavern, among the hostages, still wearing that push-up bra and slender corset but donning a different hairstyle tonight—short, in a bun. Her face was also a bit rounder, a little pudgier too, but it was her alright, as sure as the day is long. Well… at least he was pretty sure it was her; all those black girls looked alike to him. Having a big night tonight are we, bitch? he thought, Getting aaaall dressed up? You shouldn't have fought me, bitch. Shouldn't have fuckin' fought me!

"C'mon, Mr. B," Javier called, strolling past him towards their leader. "We're done here."

Not quite. Not nearly.

He felt the duffle bag's strap boring into his shoulder, saw Lenny inch closer to his own exit on the second floor, and could hear Mary-Beth's voice in his ear: Micah, you're so brave and strong and handsome.

Then Hosea's: Micah, I don't usually admit this, but I was wrong about you. Because of what you did at Blackwater, we can get away from all this! You are a hero!

Then Arthur's: Cowpoke, you're alright. I know I gave you a hard time, but it was cuz I was always a bit jealous a' you. Of your tenacity and persistence. When you set your mind to something, ain't nothing gonna deter you. I always saw you as a brother…

And Micah shot the black tramp dead.

The aftershock was immediate, the damage happening in three phases.

First, the crowd delivered a deafening scream in unison, deciphering what you'd expect from Micah's demonstration: They lied, they'll kill us all!

Second, the school of hostages stood up and hurdled towards Sean, breaking for the doors of this boat—they probably figured it was better that most died than all. The Irishman looked to Dutch before aiming his gun, hoping that killing a few would ward the rest away; Charles pulled his gun down and shoved him out of the way of the rampage. Killing a few wouldn't have done anything except breed a few widows; they lost control, and the captives wanted the hell out. And so they got it, slamming the doors open and bursting out of the ship onto the docks, bellowing so loud you could probably hear it clear across Flat Iron Lake.

Third, the gunshot struck a nerve in one of the policemen grouped in with the other gentlemen and indextrous gamblers, and as Charles propelled Sean out of harm, the brazen constable dove for the gun he'd surrendered on the ground and got a shot off.

Bang! Dutch was hit, dropping the sack of wealth as he collapsed in agony.

"No!" Micah screamed in horror (and he really meant it) before shooting the rogue cop and rushing over to his friend. Javier beat him.

"Dutch, you're gonna be fine," he soothed, tearing a piece of fabric off his jacket and smooshing it against the wound to stop the bleeding. "Bullet went clean through."

"It's alright, Dutch," Micah joined in, bending down beside Javier. "We're here for you."

"You fuckin' idiot…" Dutch groaned, perplexing Micah for a moment. Who is he talking about? Jav—no… me?

"Get Dutch on his feet," Charles ordered, sprinting over, his long dark locks flowing back, leaving the fear on his face naked. "We gotta get out of here, now."

"He can't go anywhere," Javier insisted. "Not till—"

"No," Dutch whimpered through the searing pain. "Charles is right, we gotta go. Pinkertons'll be on their way, Micah made sure of that."

He was talking about me.

"W-well, we don't know that…"

"Yes we do," he barked, blood dripping from his grimace. "I promise you, they'll take notice of fifty goddamn people racing off the docks screaming' like goddamn banshees! You child."

"Hey, this was yours and Lenny's plan!" Micah bit back, feeling defensive for no reason in particular.

"You…" Dutch let that comment fade and looked to Charles, demanding he grab the duffel bag he dropped. "Javier, help me up, and let's find us a little goddamn haste!"

"No, no, I gotcha!" Micah budded in, cutting Javier off, tossing his duffel bag to Lenny, and slinging Dutch's arm over his shoulder, aiding him to his feet.

Sean led like a bloodhound, steering them past the last disk-shaped table and nude Greek painting (or French, or British, or whatever country birthed classicism) to the wearisome mint green hallway. Dutch and Micah limped behind him, the three bagmen behind them.

"We'll be fine, Dutch, this is fine," Micah reassured him, only receiving blank, hate-laden umber eyes in response. Micah felt the urge to drop this deadweight he so gallantly bore, see how far he got without him, but decided against it—he would be the bigger man.

Sean hit the end of the repelling green hall, pulling the door open and sticking his head out, before beckoning the gang to follow him out; Micah and Dutch were the first, stopping with a green-dighted Sean near the railing.

"I don't see nothin'," he whispered. "Let's hurry."

They zoomed down the stairs, their feet making loud ting, ting, ting noises as they descended onto the main deck, and then onto the pier. The dim orange streetlight had gone out, and all they had to shine their path was the backlight coming off of the Korrigan, although even that had begun to flicker, and the gang blinked in and out into darkness as they hurried to the end of the docks.

"What the hell was that?!" Javier hissed at Micah.

"She was makin' a move. I had no choic—"

"The fuckin' waitress was makin' a goddamn move?!"

"Quiet!" Dutch stressed. They were close now, the white glimmer of The Count was visible along with the rest of the horses across the street.

"You are a burden, Micah," he continued, "A disease. Everything bad in this world traces back to you."

Don't shoot him, don't shoot him. Stay loose. Don't let him get to you.

"I said quiet!" He turned to their leal hound. "See anything, Sean?"

"You got shot cuz of him, Dutch! As has Jenny… Davey… Mac! He ain't one of us…"

Stay fuckin' loooooose. Don't shoot him, don't shoot him! "Anything out there, Sean?" he asked, trying to distract himself.

"You never shoulda let him in, never!"

"You… you are doubting me, Javier? You?" The pain in his voice wasn't from his injury; you would think Javier had stabbed him in the back with a scimitar.

"Damn it, anything out there Sean?!" He got no reply, Sean was as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on something to the right. So he repeated himself again (a habit he loathed) "Sean?"

"'Quoth the Raven—'"

Those were the last three words Sean MacGuire's high-pitched Irish accented voice ever spoke as the Pinkertons shot him in the face and his corpse tipped off the docks, half-sinking, half-floating into the dark waters below.

"No…!"

"Sean!"

More gunfire interrupted their sorrowful shrieks, springing them into action. Micah tugged his companion to the left, darting onto the streets of Saint Denis as bullets encompassed the area around them. Dutch whistled and his steed came charging in at one, and Micah hoisted him onto The Count before pulling himself on. He glanced back, expecting the others to have done the same, but no. The Pinkertons had cut them off, forcing them back onto the docks. It was dark and Micah's eyes still stung with sweat so he couldn't see too well, couldn't make out their faces; they just looked like a hundred suits and hats and guns (which, on second thought, he supposed they were). Javier was shot, but, unfortunately for Micah, he used his duffel bag as a shield, and instead of his filthy Mexican blood spurting out, it was just green folds, spurting right out into the river with Sean.

As Micah and Dutch rode off, they saw the Pinkertons surround the Korrigan like a pack of wolves to a deer and saw the others run vainly into the ship for refuge.

They were trapped.

"No!" Dutch cried, clutching the hole in his shoulder with one hand and slapping Micah's back with the other as he rode them back past J Cooperlee's Bottling Company's export house. "We have to go back! We can't leave 'em!"

"They're gone, Dutch! Gone!" Micah shouted back, keeping the stallion going at maximum speed. "We ain't no use to no one dead, are we?"

"But—"

"Think of the others. What'll they do without us? We need to protect who's left, don't we?"

"B-but… the money…"

"Well, who knows? There's plenty of money in the world." Like Blackwater. He realized he was smiling then and forced it down—your voice sounds different when you're smiling. "We'll find some other score soon enough, I'm sure of it."

Dutch groaned and pouted, but complained no further. They continued riding, past the train yard, past the bridge, and into the marsh leading back to Shady Belle.

Micah noticed the shift in the environment: it was quiet here, deathly quiet, not a cricket chirped or fox howled. The moon was pale blue and so was the sky; it was like the night Morgan died. Misty fog swept up from the riverside and the strong wind blew it against the riders as they traversed the swampy landscape. Three gators leered at Micah with black eyes before turning and fleeing to the sanctuary of the murky blue water, disappearing at a frantic pace. Like they were scared. Like they knew something was about to happen.

Micah and Dutch finally returned to camp, cutting through thick muddy puddles and deep holes. It was mostly packed up now, the wagons were full and in a tidy row, prepped to depart as soon as Dutch returned…

"No… goddammit, what happened out there?!" Grimshaw demanded, stalking over away from Mary-Beth who just ogled at the horror helplessly. Sadie met the old she-codger in the middle, as did Swanson and Karen. Dutch recoiled as they lifted him off the horse and carried him into the house. "Micah, what fuckin' happened?!"

Déjà vu. Wasn't more than a few days ago she came up to me, pryin' over what happened in Saint Denis. Hope she don't make a habit of molestin' me with her ancient hag breath.

"Somethin' went wrong. Pinkertons showed up. I'm sure your imagination can fill in the rest. The others are gone, money too."

"No…" she whispered, withering back until she was hunched like a snail. "They can't keep doin' this to us!"

"S-Sean?" Karen whimpered, shaking with the misery she knew Micah's answer would entail.

"In the harbor." He raised his hand to his head in an imitation of a face blowing in half.

Her sobs came out like a mouse squeaking, high-pitched and irksome—God, they really were a match, weren't they? Under the blue lighting, her fast, fat tears were barely even noticeable. Probably for the best, he thought, Women always look their worst when they cry.

"—owed?"

"Huh, come again? Weren't listening," he told a worried Sadie, who grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close, as if it emphasized her severity. He considered sticking his tongue up her nose but what she asked assassinated all humorous thoughts inside of him. He gagged up his heart at her words and felt his body go feathery with dread.

"Micah! Were you followed?"

Now I know why those gators ran.

The lead pellet dug into his leg a second later, and he screamed as he toppled to the wet dirt. A maggot crawled up and onto his face, squirming all over his cheek, drying itself off in his grainy blonde mustache. He didn't notice it.

He was too focused on the men and horses bursting out of the blue fog that bordered Shady Belle.

Fifty men, like Milton had promised.

And they were coming straight for them.

Surprise, surprise, Micah ruins everything.

Sorry to all the Sean fans, but I wanted someone to kill off, and he just has the least to offer: he isn't too good of gunslinger, he isn't skilled with words, he has a quick temper, he's not great at blending in. Maybe in another life...

Act I is coming to a close very soon, so stay tuned!

In addition, I've also finished up the overall outline of the story tonight. With the exception of a few details that are subject to change, I've got a great trajectory for the rest of this. Just wanted you to know I'm not flying by the seat of my pants. I've got a plan... this is a good one.