Perfect - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Fragments

I woke up three days later with the chief shouting cusses to the nurse.  He stopped as soon as he realized my eyes were open.  

“Thomason,” said the chief, “you awake?”

“Please, inspector,” said the nurse, “He needs his rest.”

“No, the last thing I need is rest,” I said to the shock of the nurse.  To jolt her more, I sat up and took the IV needle out of my arm.

“Please, sir,” she pleaded, “We do not know whether you have been affected in any way with the bullets.”

“All three bullets did not reach any critical areas in my body.” I never liked being confined.  The nurse gave me a weird look and checked the record at the foot of my bed.

“Sir,” she said after looking through it again, “There were four bullets: One in your thigh, one in your shin, one in your shoulder, and the last at the back of your neck.”

I immediately reached at the back of my neck and realized the gauze wrapping it.  The slight touch of the wound sent tremendous pain and I blacked out for a moment before I managed to stabilize myself. 

“Get back on your bed, please!” The nurse was worried.  I complied.

“How long will I have to be here?” I asked the nurse.

“We don’t know the extent of you injury, we have yet to check for any memory, sensory, and physical impairment.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I asked, “Let us get those tests started.”

“No, you need a break.” The chief’s words were firm. “We don’t need another shooting case that big.  You know it grabbed international headlines?  The Mayor called me yesterday to ask me about you and about your past, but I couldn’t give her anything.  I know you are good people, Thomason, but I can’t have you getting shot at and cause another panic.  I’m putting Sam and Lily on your case. Whatever that is you were working on, I want you to pass it to them when they come, you understand?”

I stared at the boss for a while. I could sense the anger building inside of him and also a hint of concern.  The boss was not the best in controlling his emotions, and Sam and Lily were not the best in taking this case—I was. 

“You are putting the wrong people in charge, chief,” I said, “Sam and Lily will probably get killed following my trail.  This case is deeper than you know it and it is only important to me.”

“Thomason, you know personal involvement in cases is prohibited.” The chief was furious.  I shouldn’t have told him I was involved.

“Hand your case over to Sam and Lily when you return,” the chief said and before I could retaliate, he said, “and that’s an order.”

I did not nod to show understanding I just sat there staring at him blankly.  After a while, the chief spat a word and left the room.  The nurse went back to attending to me and reinserted the needle. 

“You would be here for at maximum two months.” She told me, but I know that for me that would only mean two weeks.  I decided to spend the week plotting my next move.  I considered confronting Colleen again, but that would only mean suicide.  What can I get that he has not already given? I know he was involved with my history in some way or another and it seems like he could be my antagonist from the past. It is a good thing that he did not know who I was. 

I gave in to boredom of thinking and fell asleep, and this time my dream was different:  Sounds of sirens fill the air.  Men in white lab coats with panicked faces run about the room—all as white as their lab coats. A troop of black uniformed men arrive in an orderly fashion and proceed to the stasis tube across the hall from me.  The stasis tube had cracked…

“…the…hope…you…!”A naked man shouts as he storms towards the black-uniformed men, “Control…more!”

“Keep…alive!” yelled one of the men in lab coats, “…billions…worth than…!”

The naked man advances on the black men. The men open fire.  The naked man stares directly at me before bullets fly through him.

I startled awake and wondered what my dream meant.  I noticed that next to the hospital bed was a radio. The newscasters were talking about some other country in peril and another natural disaster that happened one thousand and thirty-two miles away before they got to the local news.  It would seem that my shooting incident was a big local event and there were still reports of it on the news except for some odd twists in the truth.  The news reported that Dr. Colleen was threatened in his office by an armed man who took a hostage and led the hostage into an ambush zone.  The news reported that a certain detective – brave as he was – came to the rescue of the hostage and is now receiving treatment at a hospital. Well, I guess it’s a believable story, except for the fact that the so-called “armed-man” doesn’t get a conclusion.  A cliff hanger as plain as daylight is left hanging in front of all the listeners but none of them would bother. After all, the last line on the news said that the “authorities” had a list of suspects and were handling the situation. The naivety of society I would conclude.  Is that enough for people? Do people believe everything the media feeds them no matter how farfetched it may seem?

           

Lost in my thoughts, it took me some time to realize that the news was over and the radio was now playing a song by Ryan and the Renegades entitled Listen with your Heads.

The raindrops roll down the window pane

The flowers grow from a tiny grain

There is logic in there

Or am I insane?

The question we should all be asking

Is whether we believe in what they tell us.

Are we gonna be zombies, the living dead?

Or are we gonna start listening with our heads?

Listen with your heads!

Listen with your heads!

Question everything sung or said

Even my words as they leave this mouth

Should be analyzed and raided

Let us not be naïve; Let us not be deceived.

The world is never as it seems…

The perfect song for the scenario. I wondered if the radio channel actually knew that they were promoting the end of their careers with that song. The media feeds the people and the people fall for it – it is as clear as that.  But, who influences the media? How did that one event that took place in daylight become so twisted in facts? Was the media fed by the government? I mean, it is always about the government right?

It was then that I realized that there were ways to find out more – to dig deeper.  If I could trace the source, I could trace it to the people who want to cover this up.  They will have answers.  I had a plan, but I still needed to wait for at least a week before the hospital would allow me to leave.

On the first week of my confinement, Sam and Lily arrived.  Sam is a middle-aged man with a beer belly.  He is half-way bald and probably never fired his gun more than ten times in his twenty-two years and six months on the force.  Lily is a naïve girl three months fresh out of the academy.  She is book smart and lacks any field experience besides her probation.  I was right. Sam and Lily were really not the best for this case.

“You know why we are here, Detective,” announced Sam with his hoarse, tobacco-filled breath, “Just tell us where yer keeping all the files on your recent case and we’ll be outta ya hair.” I contemplated many ways to answer Sam. His commanding tone deserved a harsh reply. I considered answering him like the chief, but I told myself that there are many better word supplements than swearing.  All I could manage was:

“You know the funny things about a bullet grazing your skull, Sam?” I pointed at the back of my neck, “Memory tends to get a little fuzzy – I would say something like 50dpi?”

Sam gave me a funny look and all Lily did was snicker at my sarcasm (or was it at her partner’s lack of comprehension?). 

“Well, if you remember then, give me a call ‘right, Thomason?” Sam said after shaking his head, “This is our case now, you don’t go and be a lone ranger, yer hear me?”

I stared at him until he left muttering something the chief would. Lily snickered again and left.  I took a mental note to consider calling on Lily if ever needed – she had a sharp mind.  Just then my bedside phone rang and I picked up. Samantha Lee was on the other end. I had asked her to take care of Simon in my absence and she has been calling me frequently to update me about Simon. Our conversation went somewhat like this:

“Hey, Adam? I mean Detective Adam.”

“Hey, Samantha, how’s Simon?”

“He misses you. I caught him trying to sneak out of the house and when I let him leave I followed him to your place. How are you holding up?”

“Sounds, like Simon. I’m doing fine. Hey, when you went over to my place was there anything unusual?”

“Not that I could notice, why? Is everything alright? Are there people looking for you?” I could read her panic in her voice.  She was probably looking around her house checking to see she was not followed.

“Nothing to worry about, Sam,” I allowed myself to laugh a little to calm her nerves, “Can you do me a favour?” I waited for her reply before continuing.  Involving her may have its consequences but she was the only person I could trust at this point of time. “The keys to my apartment are under the twenty-ninth flowerpot in the park nearest my place.  Can you go to my place and get my case file by the title of “Colleen” and bring it to the hospital? Thanks.”

I ended the call knowing that I have trusted the right person.  Waiting for Samantha to arrive, I drifted off into another dream. 

“Ten is down! Get him back into the tube!” The black-uniformed men rushed in and grabbed the naked man and carried him into a tube.  A man with thick glasses and a shaved head stands in my view staring at me and yells.

“Thirteen…awake! He saw everything. He has…go as well.”

“No!” Another lab-coated yelled, “Billions…wasted…successful…we...erase memory?”

I jolted awake.  Everything I dreamt about felt like it really happened.  They felt real almost as if it was a memory. I remembered how Samantha told me that my dreams could be suppressed memories manifesting itself in my sleep.  I tried to think back on the dream.  I did my best to memorize the place from the dream.  I noted every detail I could remember.  All these fragments seem to be fitting together like a colossal puzzle.

East Sun - Chapter One

Chapter One - The Stirring (Incomplete)

“I am the king!” Jarius slammed one fist on his royal throne as he pointed another at the man standing in front of him.

“Are you forgetting who put you there?” Calm as he always was, Avenzel rested upon his staff in the center of the throne room surrounded by Jarius’ counselmen, as he spoke, 

“Jarius, have you forgotten what it means to be king, what it means to be the lord of the Aeden throne? I have told you from the very start that the burden upon your shoulders would be far too great for any one man to carry, and the power, far too tempting for any one man to bear. It was not for your strengths that you became the chosen king; it was by your potential. Yes, Jarius, you are the king, and now act like one.”

There were some gasps from the council as Avenzel spoke those words. No one else would dare to speak to Lord Jarius in this manner. The law allowed Jarius to execute anybody who offends him especially within his throne room. Jarius had brought the kingdom of Aeden back from ruins. His councilroom was testament to the fact with its rounded hall and seven supporting pillars that seemed to take forever to reach the ceiling that was painted like the heavens. The thirteen lesser thrones surrounding the Aeden throne adorned with gold encircled the counselroom. A path between two lesser thrones that led directly to the middle of the room began at the main grand entrance. Protecting the main entrance of the counselroom stood a gate so grand that it requires two men to open.  The wealth of the nation could be seen painted on the walls, pillars, and ceiling as though creation was birthed from this place.

“Avenzel, do not use your wise words against me! I owe you a great debt for your service to me, but I would not be silent as you mock me in front of my counsel.”

“Can’t you see that you have been blinded? My child, open your eyes to see that the so-called wisdom that you have consulted has scaled your eyes. The words in whisper are the hardest to forget and so are the words of spite. Hatred has been planted, Jarius, do not let it win.”

“Can you listen to this old man any longer, my Lord?” Shaphira, the governor of the northern territories of Flynt and Barbiscus who sat two thrones away from the king's right, could not hold her tongue any longer, “Avenzel, you have been excused from the court with dignity, do you want to be escorted out with nothing left?”

“Woman, do you think I care about trivial face and social piety?” Avenzel’s stare though wrinkled with age lingered with determination and fire, “This is a matter beyond any of you so-called counselmen. You have excused me as a member of counsel, yes, but I am here as a citizen of Aeden and have every right to seek the king for an audience as stated in our laws.  You can lock yourselves in the emerald rooms that you possess later, but be you all warned that there is a fire burning from the very foundations of this soil!”

“Shaphira,” The King spoke, “Did I call upon your counsel? It would do you good to know your place in this hierarchy. As for your ‘concern’, my dear friend, it holds no importance in this court; you may leave if there be naught left to be said.”

“There is one more thing to be said,” Avenzel gazed as the floor as if contemplating his next words, “You are all fools to think that you are above what is coming. As in the words of the prophet Enzer, ‘the council will not be deaf but still would not hear; they will not be blind but still would not see...’”

“You were the very one who told me that Enzer was a nut.”

“Yes, I did call him that. Not for his wisdom, but for his stubbornness. He saw no better time than the present and was rash in his actions and words. Much like how you are rash in dismissing me.”

“Guards, take him away!” No one could ever testify to have seen the king lose his anger as such before, but before the guards could lay a hand on him, Avenzel turned around to face them and the guards stayed their place. Avenzel’s gaze was terrifying as he walked out of the counselroom unescorted.  The sound of the king’s agony was cut short by the shutting of the great doors that stood at the entrance of the counselroom.

As Avenzel walked past the gates of the multitudes of men and women waiting in line to gain audience with the king, he whispered the lyrics of an old rhyme:

Listen to the old for their stories to be told

Listen to the wise for their stories in their eyes

Listen to the brave for their stories in their days

Listen, oh you, young; the fire has begun

Beyond the setting star rises a mist upon the ground

And through the misty clouds no nature can be found

What lies beyond the peaks of Carringon’s Steep?

What moves in the night while we lay asleep?

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As the evening drew and the last of the citizens in line to see the king departed, Jarius rose from his throne, strode behind it, passed the golden high curtains, and fell into his resting chamber. His counselmen knew better than to question his haste exit, they knew that Avenzel had a knack at getting on the king’s nerves as well as pretty much everyone else, but peace was beyond him that evening. Jarius laid there reclined on his mattress staring into the ceiling as he pondered on the words of Avenzel, and though he hated to admit it, he knew that Avenzel often spoke true.

Avenzel was probably the only man he could truly trust – not even his counselmen had his full confidence. Avenzel was the man that made it possible for him to be king. Avenzel was the man who saw the potential in his scrawny limbs. It was Avenzel who plucked him out of poverty when he was just a youth and entrusted him within the care of the palace stables. It was Avenzel that recommended him to be the next Captain of the Stallions after Rider Mavin retired, and it was Avenzel that got the counsel to make him the king after Lord Jolan was killed in battle. Avenzel was in every step, and yet Jarius never truly understood why. Avenzel has never been clear about his attentions to Jarius. Whenever he was asked why, Avenzel would reply with some wise words such as ‘time unfolds all questions and answers them with patience’ or ‘a man who knows his destiny may fall short of it.’  That was Avenzel: always speaking in riddles. 

Deep in his thinking, Jarius did not hear someone approaching and he jumped the moment a feminine face appeared in his line of sight. He sat up to see a beautiful face with a beautiful smile; Kanra, his third wife from Lokyeshin, giggled, “Sorry, did I startle the king?”

“You can’t startle the king,” He replied. All his worries forgotten for a moment, Jarius put a smile on his face. “Nothing happens without the king knowing it. I merely acted startled to entertain you.” They both laughed at the lie.  He held her hands in his. “What brings you into my humble abode?”

“You’re late for dinner, and the entire royal family is hungry.” At that Jarius turned out his window to realize that the sun had set and the city was quiet.

“Sorry, Kanra, I was troubled.” Kanra went closer into his embrace at those words.

“I heard that the old man paid you a visit?”

“Yes, he did, but that is a matter for another time. As they say, lay aside troubles for the night, as good sleep solves most of them.”

“Good sleep and good wine.”

“Come,” said Jarius after a laugh, “Let’s eat.” Jarius held Kanra's hand as the headed for the banquet hall, but before leaving, Jarius turns back to the window and sees the small lights from the houses below. He sees the point where the sky touches the earth.  He sees the massive towering mountain whose three main peaks could be clearly made out in the darkness.  He sees what seems to be a small light emerging from the middle peak.

“Daydreaming again?” Kanra said tugging his hand. Jarius steals one more stare at the window before following her out the door. 

He could never refuse Kanra. One could say she was his favorite of his three wives. He married his first, Aeshen, due to his kingly duties to keep Jolan’s bloodline. Aeshen is Jolan’s niece and she was the youngest of marriageable age, but still four years older than Jarius. She has been loyal, but she has always been a little too picky about the finer details. Senphin, his second wife, was another political marriage to stop the territory of Calaphan from revolting. Though she would be considered the most beautiful among the three, she was also the most cunning and deceptive. Until now Jarius rarely confides in her, not knowing her true intentions. Kanra was his controversial wife. For the first time in Aeden’s history, the king took a wife that was not of any noble families, but it was not surprising knowing Jarius’ roots. Kanra became his anchor to reality and her charitable heart far outweighed her lack of education.  Kanra was his childhood friend. His sister from the street stables and they grew up together. Kanra was a waitress at the shack of a restaurant in which he worked as a hay boy, and the lessons they learnt from there thought them how much they needed each other.

As they approached the banquet hall, Jarius could hear the sounds of his starving family – particularly the cries of Fosten, his youngest son and third child from Senphin.

“You’re late,” mentioned Fizgard, Aeshen’s second son six years in age, as Jarius and Kanra entered the room, “Shara was going to swallow her tongue soon.”

“Fizgard, know your place!” warned Aeshen, “He may be your father, but he too is the king and they both deserve your respect.”

“Yes, Mother.” Gloom took over Fizgard’s face as he sat back upon his seat. 

Jarius chuckled at the cacophony in the throne room and proceeded to his seat. When Jarius became king, he insisted that the banguet tables be circular to show equality, but after much debate with the royal hall planners, everyone agreed to an oval table. Jarius passed by Fizgard and patted him on the head before reaching his seat.

“Forgive my tardiness,” He said, “I was resting and I forgot about the time.” 

As is the tradition of Aeden, the whole table went silent as Jarius pronounced thanks and blessings, "For the meal before us and the meals to come, for the life in us and the strength we have. May we give as we've been given, and may we be ever thankful." 

The family responded in unison, "To be ever thankful."

With that, the food on the table was uncovered and the meat was brought out to be served. When he first became king, Jarius refused to eat glamorous food when his nation was going through a rough time and he supplied the palace excess to feed the people. It was only when he brought Aeden back to prosperity that he actually began eating meals fit for a king. That was the type of king Jarius was. Because of his sacrifices, he earned the trust of his people.  He was the people’s pleaser and often went to great lengths to help those that needed help often to the disagreement of Aeshen and especially Senphin. 

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Starring out into the fortress of Aeden from his succor in the mountains, Verender puts his fire out as he readies to rest. He sees the lights in the secret resting room of the king dim and he is reminded of the past.  Though an outcast of Aeden due to his weakness in the Calaphan revolt, Verender is still highly loyal to the Aeden throne. Because of his shame, he fled into the mountain that stood behind the castle and has imposed an exile on himself. Verender was Jarius’ Captain of the Archers and he felt responsible when one of his men opened fire into an innocent Calaphanene boy. It was under his watch that the Calaphan feud became the Calaphan revolt and he retired from his position when the issue was resolved - after Senphin was taken as Jarius’ bride.

As he lay there in his self-imposed exile, he could not help but think of the many things he could have done to prevent that young boy from dying. After the whole incident, Verender visited Calaphan to seek the boy’s family for forgiveness. He learnt that the boy was the first and only son of elderly farmers. After the boy’s birth, there were some complications and the woman could not conceive again. The boy’s name was Hienavon which meant god-sent. When he met Hienavon’s parents and told them of his 

involvement in their son’s death, they simply gave him a slight smile and said that as Hienavon was god-sent, he could also be taken away. They thanked him for his honor and bravery which did not make Verender feel any better. He was hoping to have the town turn against him as vengeance for Hienavon, but living with the guilt was a far heavier punishment.

After six years in the wilderness, many think Verender dead. He left without a word and has yet to utter one for close to four years. At first he talked to himself to drive insanity away, but soon he embraced it. As his head lay on his makeshift pillow of deer skin, he hears the rumblings from beneath the earth and his eyes widen. With that he speaks the first words that he has muttered in years:

“One by one, they came to seek

For the ancient words they want to speak

But the words were lost as was the art

No man left around could the words impart

But in the ground beneath the Steep

Lies an ancient power deep asleep

And as he awakes from his eternal rest

The ancient words will rise to test

Every man left will have to stand

The Aeden throne for every man.”

As he mutters the last line of this old-forgotten folksong, he rises from his mid-slumber and runs without rest to the gates of Aeden.

Masons

When Brack was still young when creatures of all size, shape, and intellect roamed freely, legends were born.  It was during this time that when brave souls perish, their souls would continue to live on in Brack.  These spirits roamed Brack as observers but were not able to be seen or affect the land in any way – they were in the land but not of the land anymore.  They were tasked as judges of new souls.  When life is lost, they would evaluate and judge to see whether a new spirit would join them or be sent to the fires of Tophet.  They saw many innocents fall many of whom they had a chance to prevent if only they were able to touch the earth of Brack.  They became angry because they felt helpless and decided to approach the great Avon with a proposal. 

                They left Brack and ascended to Godholm and into the throne room of Avon.  They bowed before the throne and their representative, Armason, spoke on behalf of them.  He said: Great Avon, we, thy witnesses of Brack, hath seen many brethren fall – a great unnecessary slaughter of good souls and birth of new spirits. We knoweth that thou hath forbidden thy servants to intervene physically in the realm of Brack but only in the matter of the spirit. Now, great Avon, heareth our plea: Long hath we witnessed the death of innocents, and long hath we no means to intervene.  But we knoweth a tear forms in thy eye whenever an innocent is lost.  Avon, all we asketh of you is that thou wilt lift the barrier that prevents us from interfering.

                Avon’s eyes were unreadable.  He sat still on his towering throne as the spirits lay prostrated before him.  He knew that it was only a matter of time when the brave spirits would not be able to bare the injustice of Brack.  But he also knew that if the barrier between the tangible and the intangible was lifted, the spirits would have no mercy against any with a plot of any evil intention.  Avon had given the spirits the ability to read the thoughts of everyone and if they were allowed to intervene in the affairs of the tangible, no creature of Brack would be given a chance to change his mind.  Avon looked up and answered in a fearful and powerful voice.  He answered: I understand thy hurdles, and I giveth unto thee two choices. If thou wilt wish to once again touch the earth, thou must give up thy great knowledge which alloweth thee to see everything, but if thou wilt choose to remain as only witnesses, nothing of which will change. 

                Armason was an old spirit, one of the first thirty spirits, and was full of wisdom and understanding – his age allowed him to understand almost all of Brack.  He called forth the spirits to divide among themselves who shall go forth and touch the land again and who shall remain.  There were fifteen thousand seven hundred spirits in all and twelve thousand stood on the side to return to the tangible world.  Avon eyed each of them and said: Let this be mine warning to thee: the road back to Brack is a hard one and many wilt be lost.  You will no longer be witnesses, but wanderers until the age of Nightfall if thou wilt be lost in the journey.  With those words, three thousand left the group and stood on the other side – nine thousand remained.  Avon continued: Without the gift of thy great knowledge, many of you wilt fall by the swords of thy enemies.  Another three thousand left the group. Avon spoke once more: When you return, I hath no bodies for you to inhabit for thine bodies hath long rotted away.  Instead thou shalt inhabit the elements for they are spiritless.  Thou shall have no flesh but thy skin shall be the dust, the winds, the stones, and the seas.  With those words many became afraid and another three thousand left the group.  Three thousand remained steadfast in their decision. 

Avon was pleased with their courage and said: Armason, thou and thy spirits hath championed a valiant cause.  I shalt send you all forth unto Brack.  You would no longer have thy great knowledge of everything, but I shalt give unto you a great knowledge of each other so that if any of you shalt be in danger, your brethren can come forth to help you.  I sent you forth as judges, as the hammer, as Armason’s three thousand – as Masons!  Then Avon made a pass with his hand and a doorway opened.  Armason took his last look at Godholm, a place his eyes will never see again until Nightfall, and walked through the doorway followed by his masons.      

Fears, sorrow, happiness, anger, and pain flooded Armason and his three thousand as they made the way back into the tangible realm.  Emotions overwhelmed them as they once again felt what it was like to breathe the air of Brack.  After what seemed to them like decades, they emerged in the land of the living.  They looked at each other and then at themselves amazed – none of them were spirits, nor were they creatures of Bracks, neither learned ones nor dumb ones.  They were the elements of Brack – they were masons. 

                               

The FOUNDATION Project - Prologue

“Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it”

– George Santayana

It seems so unlikely that this quote from a 17^th century philosopher would be the basis of the FOUNDATION Project.   It started with curiosity.  Many of the mistakes of men were well-documented but Ken Easing, a 22^nd century scientist questioned our history.  He asked a simple question.  In a thought-provoking conference for the exceptionally brilliant, he asked this:

“We know that a great philosopher said that, ‘those who forget history are condemned to repeat it’, and I agree with him, but what if the history that we have is not the ‘pure’ history that was available at Santayana’s time?  We make mistakes; that is what makes us humans, and being human also comes with embarrassing events.  Many of us remember how we did many embarrassing things and covered it all up.  I remember how I tripped on my first day of university and fell into the lake.  I remember how I just decided to skip the entire day in the campus’ toilet just for my clothes to dry.  This was a huge embarrassment to me and I made sure no one ever found out – until now of course.  Embarrassing situations and mistakes are one of the same.  If we so readily prevent people from learning something as minute as ‘there’s a hose near the lake, be careful you might trip on it’ then what about bigger mistakes?”

Easing’s question sparked the contributors of the conference to start the FOUNDATION Project. First funded by historians and philosophers, the FOUNDATION Project soon received generous contributions from other scientists, businessmen, and other ‘private’ contributors.  The pressure for the FOUNDATION Project escalated when funds started coming in from politicians. The workers at the Project worked almost round the clock to create something that has never been created before.

After months of theorizing and constructing, the WARP was completed.  The WARP was a helmet like device that hooked up to a generator that folded the time streams.  If one wore the helmet, one could see through time, but WARP had a weakness, it could not travel back more than four months.  One scientist theorized that this was so because the time stream they bended was not the entire time stream but only a portion of our present.  WARP was redundant because anything progressive up until four months ago was the FOUNDATION Project.  But this was a start…

Soon physicists constructed a way for the WARP to take a larger portion of the present and therefore create a bigger fold.  WARP began to reach years, and after more tweaks to it, months, years, decades, centuries, and even up to a millennium, but a limit was reached and the capacity of the present could not venture further than that.  Even though a ceiling had been reached, it did not stop the WARP from being used. 

Historians learnt from history and taught it accurately, scientists learnt about ancient theories that could never have been run in the past and tested them, and the most surprising use of WARP was for the usage of entertainment.   Soon a WARP Projector set could be found in almost every home and people started flipping through the past like switching programs from a television set.  People loved the unpredictability of the past and the fact that it was real. 

But it became ironic that the machine that was meant to help people learn from their mistakes became the downfall, a mistake was repeated.  The greed of the people wanted more than just a view into the future; people wanted a portal instead.  The FOUNDATION Project split into two factions with one side endorsing developing the WARP to the next level and with the other side warning against abuse of power.

The power of change is a great responsibility and the two factions continued to debate while others continued to work. The faction that held against ‘back-walking’ became known as the TIMEKEEPERS for their unwillingness to change with the times while the group that were for it began calling themselves PORTAL for they aimed now to create a means to travel between the times.

Both sides knew that it was only a matter of time before ‘back-walking’ became more than just a debate so both sides started preparing for when such thing happens. 

Under the guide of Sam Long, the TIMEKEEPERS developed equipment that would remain unnoticed in the past yet able to take physical form.  The TIMEKEEPERS discovered the TIMEOUT ZONE in which time became nothing but a great loop.  They kept the TIMEOUT ZONE a secret among themselves fearing that PORTAL might discover a way of using it as a transporter.  Above preparing for the eminent, the TIMEKEEPERS continue to upgrade WARP as a means of keeping their contributors pleased.

Jon Aero became the president of PORTAL and he turned the entire focus on physical transport.  Unlike the TIMEKEEPERS, PORTAL did not need to maintain working on the WARP, because their research was enough to attract more and more sponsors. 

Soon, Aero took over the FOUNDATION Project as CEO and fired Long and his coworkers.  The internal conflict between the two departments ended.  Long was forced to leave and take his work underground.  Long’s last words to the press about the matter were short and simple.

“What is happening here could be the very end of us,” Long was recorded saying, “The FOUNDATION Project is nothing but a company now.  What started as a belief, changed into a conflict, and now the balance is lost.  We are the TIMEKEEPERS and we warn you all that we will not be forgotten.”

After that broadcast, Long and the people under him along with their families went underground.   For a few years, nothing happened, until the first back-walker…

Perfect - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Clichés

The moment I entered the office the following day I went straight to the computer and searched for the profile of the man in my dreams—green eyes with brown hair.  My estimates were right; there were only five people that fit the profile in the entire district and only one had a doctorate (who else would have to wear a lab coat?).  I made my way to the office of Prof. Colleen. 

The office was situated in the heart of the city.  The city hub was not my favourite of places to be in especially with the after-work jams.  I took the subway to avoid just that. 

While walking to the building, I ran through Prof. Colleen’s file in my head.  Prof. Colleen arrived in the city about a month after I was found.  He is a research scientist specializing in tissue reproduction.  No marriage.  No divorces.  No history before he arrived here.  The only reason why he was in the database was because he was suspected of using live human subjects in one of his experiments. 

But what connections did he have to me? Except his timely arrival a month after my discovery, there was nothing.  Unless I was one of those live human specimens he tested on.  I did have rapidly regenerative skin compared to others, but doctors have said that it was because of my super high metabolic rate.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” Prof. Colleen said as he greeted me into his lab.  I saw stasis tubes by the hundreds holding various samples of skin.  I noted none were big enough to hold a human in, but then again, research like those is carried on behind closed doors.

“I would like to ask whether the name Adam rings a bell.” I said as I sat down at his desk.

“You have to be more specific than that, I’m sorry.”

“Adam thirteen?” It was there that I caught his eyes widen for a split second before going back into his normal stern face. 

“What exactly are you investigating, Detective?” Colleen spoke defensively.  He reached for his hip—a move common of enforcement agents who instinctively reach for their sidearm.  There was of course no real danger as I did not see the bulge of a gun at his hip when I first entered the office.

“That information is confidential,” I could not believe I used the oldest cliché in the police book, “what can you tell me about Adam thirteen?”

Colleen smiled at me and said:

“My dear, Detective, I just need to make just one phone call and you’ll be out of a job.  I ask you again, nicely, what is your case?” 

“Are you threatening an agent of the law?”—again another cliché—“As long as I uphold justice, there is nothing you can do.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and two men in suits walked in.

“Is there a problem, Prof. Colleen?” One of them said as he reached at his hip as a warning to me.

“No,” Colleen said, “This detective was just about to leave.” He said it sternly and I knew that it was a threat.  I could easily take the two men down, but I would risk getting into a lot of trouble.  I decided that it was better to continue my investigation not behind bars.  I got up and said:

“Don’t leave town.” Another cliché?  Was I becoming a real cop now?   

I was escorted to the exit where I thanked the security for the hospitality—sarcastically.  I do not know whether they wanted me to know or not, but it was obvious that one of the security personnel was following me.  I steered myself into the most crowded areas, not to disappear, but more to avoid giving a chance for a clear shot.  I took a quick glance at the guard and I noted that he was carrying a firearm—with the safety off.  I knew I got myself into a big mess.  I tabulated my options.  The most logical move was to flee.  Fleeing would mean civilians would be safe and my chances of survival would be higher, but it would also mean giving this suspect a chance to escape. An alternative option would be to confront the target, but that would risk innocent injuries and even deaths.  I decided on another alternative and walked towards the secluded, abandoned construction site.  I stood behind a steel pillar before unhooking my holster and pointing my firearm at him.

“That is far enough. Put your hands where I can see them.” The amount of police clichés I have said today was really bothering me.  I was greeted with a gunshot.  The blast would have got me if I had not been behind the pillar. Instead the bullet ricocheted off the metal pole creating sparks.  More bullets soon followed suit, but they came from various directions and the bullets were from different calibre guns.  I heard the sound of a sniper at my right.  Shooting would risk getting shot myself, so I stayed my ground.  I almost called for backup but then decided not to as too many people would be at risk.  The shooting soon stopped.  The man who was following me shouted:

“This is a warning! Stay away from the ADAM case! You will not be given a chance next time!”  He walked away and I heard the other shooters move away.  45 seconds passed before I decided that it was safe.  It was then that the pain hit me.  Bullets had found their way into my shoulder, shin, and thigh.  I reached into my phone and dialled the number of the PD while I felt the world blacking out.  I heard the front desk officer Elaine’s voice.

“This is Thomason…trace…me...” I drifted into unconsciousness.     

Purpose is a motivation to live.  What is man without a purpose? What is life if there is no reason to live?  Man needs a purpose no matter how small to keep him going through life.  May it be to get an ‘A’ on an exam or to sing on stage, we all have a purpose to live.

I awoke in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors running around the room. 

“He’s awake! Someone, sedate him now!” a doctor yelled.  I looked at my body.  My shoulder wound was probably caused by a sniper and my leg wounds by a sidearm.  I managed to speak through the mask they put on my face.

“The bullets are evidence.”

“We know that, sir, please let us get them out of you first,” The doctor was clearly shocked at my ability to speak, “Sedate him now!”

“We already have…twice,” shouted the nurse.

“Must be the adrenaline pumping,” the doctor concluded, “Up the anaesthetic.”

I tried to defy the doctor’s orders, but soon the anaesthetic started taking its effect and I felt my world fade away the second time in the day. 

Unconsciousness

Perfect - Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Simon

In the afternoon, after I cooled down a little, the chief called me into his office. 

“You remember that guy you caught two nights back—Tony long?” asked the chief when I steeped through the door.  He had an opened file in front of him—Tony’s file.  In no mood for words, I nodded.

“Well, he was sentenced yesterday.” The chief looked at me to see my expression before continuing, “two years.”

I nodded emotionlessly.  In truth, it was an honest judgement since my report stated everything important.

“What’s troubling you, Thomason?”

“Nothing,” I replied coldly, “Just not happy, that’s all.”

“With?” prompted the chief.

“Life,” I stated plainly.

“You need a counsellor?”

“Not necessary.”

“Sure ‘bout that?”

“Yes.” I emphasized the word.

“Fine, then take the day off.”  It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.

I nodded and walked out.  With the rest of the day off and so many productive things that I could do, I decided to head home. 

This time Simon was not at the door with his empty bowl.  Instead, the bowl was only half-drunk and Simon was nowhere to be seen.  I did not bother looking for him.  He is a cat after all—when he is hungry, he looks for you.  I sat at my coffee table after I made my coffee and wondered about that day I found Simon.  It was my third year of consciousness and my sixth month on the force.  I was examining the crime scene of the murder of Elizabeth Lee.  She had been shot at point blank range in the back.  I was going through her room when a cat came through the open window.  I recognized the cat as the cat in her photos.  The collar that Simon wears now is the one Elizabeth was going to give him on his tenth birthday.  I kept Simon after I cleared up the paperwork.

The phone rings.  Where did I put it?  I made a mental note to get one of those gadgets that has everything in it so I would not need so many things in my pockets. 

“Hello?” I said after finding my phone in my left pocket.

“Mr. Thomason?” A woman’s voice answered.

I nodded.  Then I remembered that I was talking to the phone and said yes—I need to focus…too much daydreaming.

“I’m Samantha Lee.  Elizabeth Lee was my mother.”

“Yes?  How are you Samantha?”

“Umm…I was wondering…do you still have Simon with you?”

I didn’t know what to say.  I dreaded to say yes and hear her ask whether she could have him…after all he rightfully belonged to her.  I dreaded to say no and to come up with story on where he is now.  And most of all, I dreaded to lie. 

After a very awkward pause, I said yes.

“Great!” She answered and I felt sick—figuratively, I have never been sick for as long as I can remember.  I closed my eyes as she continued, “I am around the neighbourhood and I saw a cat that looked exactly like Simon running after a police car, and I thought that he should be with you…”

“I think that is him, Samantha,” I answered laughing a little, “You see, Simon doesn’t like being in the house all the time, and he gets out here and then.”

I heard a laugh at the other end of the line, and then I heard running and a siren as Samantha ran after the van shouting Simon’s name.  I hung up the phone after all I could hear on the other end was heavy staccato footsteps, a loud annoying siren, a woman’s effort in calling a cat’s name in the middle of a run, and the annoying panting when she tires.

I check my phone again.  The siren sounds still seem to be ringing.  No, the call has ended.  Now I hear a woman’s panting?  I look at the window in time to see Simon jump in through the window obviously exhausted.  He went straight for the half-drunk milk bowl before he spotted me and jumped.

“Hi to you too, Simon,” I greeted, “how was the little police chase?”

The cat gave me a curious look and went back to his bowl. 

I hear the lift.  I sigh as I walk to my door.  A fist greeted me as I opened the door.  I had opened it one second to late for Samantha to withdraw her knock.

“Sorry!” was all she managed.

I check my nose.  Not to see whether it was broken, but more as a cultural expectation.

“You can come in,” I said while I left the door opened for Samantha, “Simon’s inside.”

Samantha rushes in to see her mother’s cat.  I sat at my coffee table and observed.  Samantha had changed from the last I time saw her.  She was more mature in every sense, but her fashion sense needed improvement.  At age twenty, media played a very important part in her life.  She dressed plainly with a blue baby-tee shirt and track pants.  She was most likely jogging when she spotted Simon.  I couldn’t analyze her face as it was blocked with her long ebony hair. 

I got up to get her a drink.  One minute and twenty-four seconds passed before she got up and sat at the coffee-table.

“He looks well,” said Samantha motioning to Simon.

“He is fed twice daily, he has no restrictions—he can go anywhere he wants, and he eats Miaowers the ‘ultimate cat chowder’.” I noticed she stared at me rather strangely, but she laughed at my last statement.  I wondered what was wrong with Miaowers. 

Now I could view her face.  She looked exactly like her mother, with her father’s eyes.  She looked at me and I quickly turned away.  The awkward silence lasted for fifty-three seconds, until she began talking. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I got the day off.”

“Sick?”

“No, the boss didn’t like my attitude today.  Well, no one liked my attitude today at the office.”

  

“Why?”

I looked straight into Samantha’s eyes.  Should I tell her my problems? Why should I even confide in her? It won’t improve my condition, and I already told the chief that I didn’t need a counsellor.  But she looked interested in my story, not the usual story that everybody had probably already heard—the man-recovered-from-the-river-now-works-in-the-police-force story—she seemed interested in my story.

“I have been having disturbances in my sleep.” I confessed, “I have been dreaming about the same dream for sometime now and I think it has to do with my origin.”

“What do you dream about?”

I told her all that I remembered from the dream.  All she did was nod with understanding, but what does she understand? She knows where she was born; I don’t even know whether I was.  That A.D.A.M. 13 mark on my back is a constant reminder of the past I am trying to recall, but all I have about my past is my dream and that mark.  Is my life meant to be such? Am I supposed to live like a vagrant for the rest of my life? Her eyes widened at the description of one of the scientists.

“Green eyes and cropped brown hair?” she clarified. I nodded.  The description was that of a plain man.  It wouldn’t even help in an investigation, but now as she sat puzzled, I recalled that there were not many people with green eyes and brown hair in the city—in fact, only a handful.  “You can see colour in your dreams?” Her question threw me off.  I thought she was thinking of all the men that could fit the profile, but she had drawn her attention on something more important.  She was right; colours in dreams meant that the dream was of a real memory—at least that was one theory.

“What does that mean?” I asked.  It was clear she was thinking a lot, but I was not sure what she was pondering upon.

“It means that your dreams could actually be concrete memories.  Real memories suppressed into your unconscious that it only manifests itself when you let your guard down—when you sleep.”  It was only then that I recalled Samantha’s vocation.  She was a clinical psychologist.  Great, I told the chief I did not need a counsellor and here I am with one in my house, but she knew about something that could help me in my hunt for the truth.     

I did not know how to respond so I just laughed.

“What did I say?” she asked blushing.

I laughed before replying:

“It’s just that I told the chief of police that I didn’t need a shrink today.”     

We both laughed together before we returned to our cups of coffee.  The awkward silence was unbearable so I broke it.

“So, these dreams could be about my past?”

“There’s a possibility that they are, Adam, but I can’t be sure.  There are many different theories about dreams, but as far as I can tell, it’s rare to dream in such detail, let alone, remember all of your dreams.  These dreams that you are having are connected somehow with your history.”

After the conversation carried on for another twenty-three minutes, Samantha took a look at her watch and decided that she needed to leave.  She took a last hold of Simon and left.  She left me with something to hope for.  Something in my past manifested itself in my dreams.  Just how exact they are, I will never be sure, unless I investigate.  

Hood of Niadris - Prologue

In the time of powerful magicians—the time when the Great One, Avon, walked the land—Brack was a peaceful and prosperous land.  The Great One and the Gardeons, his disciples, taught the inhabitants of Brack the ways of righteousness.

But the Great Avon had to leave his land of Brack and return to Godholm when one of his own Gardeons, Avongel, betrayed him and corrupted the land.  The Great One left his Gardeons in Brack to keep Avongel from completely destroying his land.  The Gardeons succeeded in pushing Avongel and his grotesque armies of cryans and evoluns south of Brack, and managed to trap Avongel there.  Avongel took control of this place and it became known as Tophet, the land of smoke. 

In case Avongel was to ever break the spell that held him there, Niadris, a magician fawn and disciple of Halbark, one of the Gardeons, forged a helmet and planted into it the knowledge of ending the reign of Avongel if Avongel ever escaped.  By forging this powerful instrument, Niadris quickly made enemies, mainly bounty hunters, hoping to gain something back from Avongel by destroying it.  Fleeing for his life, Niadris hid the helmet in the Forest of Halbark.  There in the enchanted forest, the helmet was safe.  No Aizon could penetrate the magical thickness of the forest of Halbark. 

After a few centuries of imprisonment, Avongel found a way to escape—through the Menelandine border.  He released his Raiders of Night, his messengers of death, to prepare for his return to Brack.  The Raiders began a reign of terror.  In every village, town, or city visited by these Raiders, only ruins and smoke were left behind.  Armies of any kind fell to the feet of these Raiders.  Nothing stood in their way. 

More recently, the Raiders have completely devastated the territory of Meneland and have moved north into Kanine.  Their direction of destruction seems to be northwards and their next possible direction is east until the Avas Sea—in this way, destroying all of Brack from east to west.   

Perfect - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Adam Thomason

“Thomason is it true that you stopped all these criminals without backup?” said my boss, the chief, as he threw a stack of photos from a thick brown file on my desk.

“Yes.” My response was almost immediate.  I knew what he was going to say—not that I’m that good in predicting the future—but because this is the second time he’s said that this week…the sixty-ninth time this month…the three hundred and twenty-fifth time this year.

“What happened to your partner?”

“He couldn’t catch up.”  My eyes were cold…emotionless.  My partner, Diego, was probably from the lowest part of the food chain.  All I have ever seen him consume are doughnuts and that poison the companies laboured “carbonated drinks”.  It is to no surprise that he is as fat—and slow—as last year’s escargot. 

“He was trying?” suggested the chief. Diego was his nephew and he didn’t want to have to fire relatives.

“Yes, but he collapsed after his twenty-ninth step.” 

“What? Never mind, I want your report on my desk tomorrow.”

“It is already completed and lying on your desk bellow Steven’s report on the fifty-third car theft this week.”

The chief gave me a weird look—it would be classified something between confusion and surprise, and a tinge of anger.  When he composed himself, he walked out saying something about some donkey which had a dog as a mother being too smart a donkey. 

I looked at the mug shots of the people that I recently put behind bars.  Why do they need to commit crimes?  I knew from analysis that there were roughly four groups of criminals: they had no other choice, they wanted revenge, they were dared into doing it, they wanted easy money, or they just felt like it.  Out of the eighteen photos, I can only see that only one really needed money—Tony Long whom I caught just last night.  I caught up with him in an alley.  He had been fleeing the patrols by taking the narrowest paths.  He gave me more thrills than the rest.  He had stolen two point three thousand dollars worth of diamonds.  When he realized that he could not escape, he begged me to let him go, because his daughter was dying of cancer and he had already used up all the money he and his wife had saved on her chemotherapy.  I arrested him but allowed him to say one last goodbye to his wife and daughter.  I left a check in his house which was enough for his daughter’s treatment for two months.  His wife will find it in two hours and twenty-one minutes time when she returns from visiting him from the locker.

I put the photos away in my almost full file of solved crimes, grabbed my jacket and headed back home.  I plugged the headphones from my mp3 player into my ears and switched to the radio function.  The radio station was playing some new song named More than a Simple Life by Fantasies are Fake.  I listened to the rock beat and the catchy tune of the chorus.

It’s more than a simple life

For most of us at least.

We have to work hard,

Before we can even feast.

We got to earn a living

Before we can start life.

Not like many heiresses

Who’ve been to Paris,

And such,

And only had a simple life.

Besides the jibe at the celebrity, the song actually had meaning.  I thought about Tony Long who had a ‘more than a simple life’.  He was an honest worker, but always spoke what he believed in.  His bosses promoted him twice this a year, but still his wage was not enough.  He asked for bonuses and searched for other ways to get money legally.  He took loans and borrowed from friends, until finally resorting to theft.  There are so many people with more than enough money and so many with not enough.  All we have to do to make the world a better place is to get rid of all these poverty by making the rich poorer and the poor, richer.  Though luck.  No comfortable sane business man would give up his luxury of a mansion to live in a ‘lowly’ apartment.

“Simon, I’m home.” I announced as I opened my front door.  My Toby cat appeared at the door with his empty milk bowl in his mouth.  I went to the kitchen to fetch him his milk, poured it into his bowl before relaxing into my couch.  I switched on the TV and browsed the channels until I found the local news.

“Crime rates are dropping,” announced the anchor-woman, “All this due to Chief inspector Miles and his team.”

I should be angry that I wasn’t acknowledged, but what’s the point?  It’s useless.  I watched as they interviewed the chief on his strategy and I couldn’t help smiling.  The chief mentioned about equality in the department, and all that gibberish about how well he treats his staff.  I was shocked to hear that he did not mention anything about a dog’s son or a ‘whole donkey’.

I fell asleep during his speech—I could not help it: I hear his voice everyday—and had that same dream again.  I dreamt that I was in water—no, some sort of liquid that does not burn your eyes—and restricted.  I could see people in lab coats starring at me in disbelief.  Then I see total blackness.  In the same dream this process repeats itself like I was blacking out and coming back again and again.  I would not call it a nightmare, but it did make me feel strange. 

I woke up at five in the morning.  Instead of getting ready for work, I sat down on my coffee table and pondered over the dream.  It has been three weeks since I started dreaming about the same thing and every time the dream became clearer and clearer like a focus function on a camera had been activated—I could even make out the faces of some of them. 

 I did not sit and think for long.  I got ready and left for work at six-thirty.  Like a robot, I reached in my pocket and listened to my mp3 again.  I was in no mood to hear the morning crews of the radio stations joke about, so I switched to my songs and listened to my playlist.  The song: Mirrorman by the Magicians soon blasted through my earphones.

I woke up today

Feeling a little drowsy.

But I know that life could not wait

For me to be ready.

So I went to the bathroom

To freshen myself again

Than I looked into the mirror

And saw the…

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

What is it you see?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Why it is only me.

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Who is to say I am he?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Well, you have to be somebody?

I turned on the shuffle function and changed the song—I was in no mood for thought-provoking songs and that album by the Magicians was entitled: Think About That.

A smooth melody soon sang through the phones.  It was the relaxing voice of Jane Benedict singing Chosen. 

From the beginning of time,

We were chosen by God

We are here for a reason,

Placed here by God.

To look after his creation,

Every rock, sand, or sod.

We are chosen by the Almighty

To care for our city.

We are created for a reason.

We are chosen for a cause.

We are created for this season

We are chosen for a cause…

I gave up and switched off my player.  The song did not help my mood—firstly, because I did not know where or when I began.  My earliest memories are of those five years ago when I was fished out of the sea in the beginning of winter—not with bullets in my body like the movie.  I suffered from hyperthermia and apparently that can lead to amnesia as well.  I did not know how I managed to communicate with the people in English, but I did.  I later discovered that I was the ninth in twenty bodies recovered in that week alone in the same river.  I was the only survivor.  All of us had a mark on our backs that read: A.D.A.M. followed by numbers—my number was thirteen.  Eventually I joined the police force hoping to uncover the truth about my origin, but until now, I have learnt close to nothingt.

With a face that could scare Simon, I stomped into the HQ.  No one talked to me the whole morning because of my face—not even the chief.

Perfect - Prologue

Consciousness…

Who am I? Where am I? Why is this water not stinging my eyes? Who are these people starring at me? All these…questions…and I don’t even…have... one answer….

Unconsciousness…

Humans in lab coats run about the room.  Everyone checking their delicate instruments to see what went wrong (or right depending on the context).  Though his eyes opened for only five seconds, they all knew that A.D.A.M. 13 had reached consciousness. 

A group gather at a whiteboard as a scientist draws complicated symbols in a language only those present understood.  Engineers examine the stasis tube which A.D.A.M 13 is held in checking for cracks and other possible malfunctions.  Another group of scientists gather on a platform near the stasis tube analysing possibilities on devices that would make a computer seem outdated.  Scientific jargons fill the lab like music.  All these scientists trying in vain to answer one simple question: How?

“What if our calculations are flawed?” suggested the philosophical Dr. Lang.

“Are you trying to say that the laws, the foundation of this project, which we have built upon is wrong?” said an over-eager, young scientist by the name of Dr. Colleen

“Newton has been wrong before.” The comment came out of thin air and the speaker could not be identified.

“I’m not suggesting that,” said Dr. Lang, “I’m just saying what if the answers we are looking for is not in chemistry or physics but in simple biology?  Maybe A.D.A.M. 13 woke up because he felt like it?”

“No way,” announced Prof. Sawyer, head of the neurological department, “We didn’t implant any human emotion into A.D.A.M. 13 yet…unless…”

Silence fills the hall as everyone quietens to hear Prof. Sawyer’s words.

“Unless, the human instincts we programmed him with made him believe he was alive? It’s a theory.”

Prof. Sawyer’s words held no water—mainly because it held no scientific backing.

Little did everyone present know that the answer lay in front of them, and that Prof. Sawyer was right—A.D.A.M. 13 woke up because he believed that he could.