"Alright, you boots. From here on out, keep your eyes on your assigned area. We might not be in the Queen's territory yet, but she's not going to let us just walk in. Seraphim, are we fully covered?"

  "Out to twenty feet, ready to expand if needed," I report. "No aliens nearby that I can tell."

  "Let us know the moment that changes," my team leader orders unnecessarily.

  "Will do," I confirm anyway.

  Weapons ready, we advance. We're approaching down the street in the suburbs east of St. Louis, our area of operation assigned to us after we landed in the staging area set up in a former golf course nearby. Slowly but surely, we established our defensive line of armor and artillery, just the right distance from the Queen's domain to be oppressive, and now it's up to the infantry to press forward.

  You'd think that tanks should be part of the forward push—that's part of what they were originally designed for, after all—but while their armor is exceptional against Raptors and even Behemoths, Wasps find them to more or less be free targets. Wasp acid chews through metal just as easily as it does everything else, and tanks are too large and too immobile to avoid being vomit-bombed into oblivion. And since everything outside a domain can be killed with bullets anyway, there's not a huge need for them.

  Inside a Queen's domain is even worse for the vehicles: bullets and even tank shells tend to get negated the moment they leave a super's zone of control, and Wasps can stay high enough in the air to ignore the domains of ground-bound supers. Airborne supers and superhuman aircraft pilots can still shred Wasps, but they tend to bring out the Angels, and then it becomes an Angel fight which is something we only want to invite with due preparation.

  Fortunately, we're prepared. Helicopters buzz overhead, ready to rain down lead and phosphorus on any aliens stupid enough to get spotted between here and the Queen's domain. But it's a long way there on foot, and we unfortunately still need to be on foot. The terrain is full of dense forests and abandoned houses, and every inch of it needs to be meticulously cleared to ensure no swarms of aliens are packed inside, ready to tear open our asses when we focus our fire ahead.

  I am, of course, almost completely certain that there aren't any aliens around, but I know better than to try and convince all of military protocol to bend just because I can smell things real good. I don't begrudge anyone insisting we make sure when it's something this vital. My entire sensorium has been cranked up to the best possible configuration I can manage, balancing sensitivity with the fact that, when things get rolling, there are going to be a lot of very loud noises and very sharp smells and very bright flashes all around me basically all the time. I of course don't need to worry too much about damaging my eyes and ears, since I can just fix them, but it's better to not have to do that in the first place.

  It feels good being in a maximum-specs body for once. The anxiety of walking into an active warzone buzzes in the back of my mind, spiking my heart rate and keeping my muscles tense, but then I think about those muscles and remember all over again that if I figure out any improvement, no matter how slight, I can just adjust immediately. No one cares if my face shifts when I'm not paying attention to it. No one is worried about how normal I seem. They don't even see Lia when they look at me anymore. They see Seraphim, their guardian Angel.

  Our nine-man team reaches our first temporary emplacement zone, quickly setting up our LMGs as I expand my domain, checking for living things in as large a radius as I can without compromising the safety of my team. There is, of course, most of the life there usually is—grass, trees, insects, birds—but there's a surprising lack of small terrestrial creatures like rodents, toads, and rabbits. I imagine the Raptors have hunted them out of the area; within the domain of the Queen, I doubt there will even be insects. The aliens don't really seem to understand the value of a healthy ecosystem. Maybe I should ask them about that.

  After making our way through a fairly open field, we reach the dense part of the suburbs. The fight-or-flight response moves from a hum at the back of my head to a roar at the forefront of my consciousness. Logically, we are in a lot more danger here among the buildings, but I doubt that's actually the source of my stress. Part of me is still looking for houses that seem like they were only recently abandoned so that we can stock up on food and rest before the circle of monsters closes in around us. I let a wave of fur grow and vanish over my skin to try and calm myself down.

  We clear the first house, making sure there's nothing waiting to ambush us inside, and then we set up another encampment and cover Anastasia's team as they move forward to take the next. When the soldiers she's protecting are done, they set up their own encampment, and Ed's fire team moves up past us both. Rather than a wheelchair, which wouldn't be very effective in the complicated terrain, Ed is just straight-up strapped to another soldier's back, his power making that soldier more than strong enough to handle the extra weight on top of the rest of his gear.

  I think that initially, everyone who didn't get placed on Ed's team was secretly relieved that they wouldn't have to worry about the extra thing to manage, but from our time training together I can tell that his group has quickly decided that they are the lucky ones. Their fire team lugs a heavy machine gun alongside the LMGs standard to everyone else, and they're still moving with greater ease than anyone bar me. When the normal humans in our squad watch them pass, I can almost feel the pangs of jealousy from their bodies as their eyes wander away from their target areas to briefly linger on their luckier squadmates.

  Sometimes Ed will give a thumbs-up to someone staring at him. It doesn't make them feel better, but it makes me laugh. My fire team, originally thinking that they had the best deal on superheroes, is quickly learning to lament the fact that they're stuck with the one person who knows exactly where everyone is looking and how much they're paying attention to their target area at any given time.

  "Wandering eyes," I comment blandly, and Jimenez swears before refocusing where he's supposed to.

  "You're going to put me out of a job, Sera," our corporal smirks, and I do my best not to twitch at the name.

  "I just don't want to get stabbed by a Raptor," I answer easily.

  "Couldn't you walk that off?" one of the privates comments. I think his name's Manning.

  "Sure, but I'm at the center of the formation here. If I'm getting stabbed, who's going to carry all of our stuff back?"

  "Cut the chatter," our corporal orders, though there isn't much heat in it. "It's almost time for us to move."

  We leapfrog forward like this for over two hours, coordinating with dozens of other squads to ensure every street and every house is covered, before I smell the first alien. We're still a bit too far away for me to make out anything very clearly, but they're definitely there. Next time it's our turn to head forward, I have enough information to make a report.

  "Control, this is Seraphim. Be advised that I am detecting enemy presence approximately a quarter mile ahead of my current position. No visual. Over."

  "Seraphim, this is St. Louis Control," my radio crackles back. "Information received. Do you have a force size estimation? Over."

  Hmm. Let's see… the scent is faint and muffled, probably because they're hiding indoors somewhere. My assumption is that they would still leave a window open or something so they could continue receiving communications, but I'm not confident enough in that to risk judging exact numbers on.

  "Negative, Control. I anticipate more information as we get closer. Over."

  "Understood. Keep us updated. Over."

  "Wilco, Seraphim out," I say, ending the radio communication. I turn to my team leader. "I'd like to take my helmet off."

  He's clearly not happy about it, but he nods anyway. Poor guy probably hasn't been trained long enough to know exactly what to do when a superhero asks you something weird and normally stupid. I quickly eat my helmet so I don't have to drop my gun, growing much more comfortable sucker-covered tentacles out of my scalp and tasting the air unimpeded with my alien senses. There we go. In four or five different houses, separated into groups of twenty to thirty, the Raptors wait in ambush in the upstairs and basement areas of the buildings, planning on taking advantage of the close quarters to kill the teams sent to clear the houses. I make my report.

  Control asks me more questions and I give as many answers as I'm able, before they eventually disseminate the information to the other squads. My fire team doesn't end up clearing one of the marked houses, but I can tell more or less what's going on based on the smells flying through the air.

  "Ambush formation three: failure. Detected on entry."

  "Ambush formation five: failure. Detected on entry."

  "Report: this unit (signature six) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature nine) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature one) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature fourteen) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature sixteen) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature four) is dead."

  "Ambush formation seven: failure. Detected on entry."

  "Report: this unit (signature twenty-three) is dead."

  The aliens, disturbingly, aren't shouting out the reports of their own demise with their dying breaths; they're shouting with their dead ones. Each of them is simply configured to let off a given scent upon expiring. That scent is not different from their normal language in qualia or delivery, the messages from beyond the grave especially eerie given that I can't tell if a given communication is from someone alive until they say they aren't. The reports about ambush formation failures are made by living Raptors, conversely, although I imagine the state of affairs is quite temporary. The Raptors are fully aware that they are doomed the moment that they are detected, but they die fighting nonetheless.

  "Order modification: cease ambush formations one, two, four, six, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Retreat to indicated location (safe, distance run, sprint thirty pace fifty)."

  Those were an Angel's words. It was obvious, not just from the content but from the way it felt in my mind. There's a fundamental difference in even the most innocuous words of an Angel compared to our lesser kin. And of course, it's also obvious that this was an Angel because shortly after the words are conveyed, Raptors pour out of the houses yet to be breached, sprinting in a tide away from our troops. The forwardmost fire teams kill as many as they can, but Raptors are fast and there's no reason to chase after them.

  Our spotters just tell the artillery to do it.

  It would be very nice if we could just shell the hell out of this ghost of a city and approach through the ruins, but it just isn't practical to lay waste to that much area. When the enemy is in plain view and far enough away from our own troops, though? They're gone. Really, if not for Queens and Angels, this wouldn't even be a war. At least not on land.

  It's hard not to feel a little bad, though. I just have to try not to think about it. Thankfully, I find that particularly easy while my brain is mostly alien. Low empathy is a hell of a drug, an addicting relief from the usual unnecessary pains in my life. It probably doesn't reflect well on me to think things like that, but oh well.

  It's the results that matter.

  We continue pushing in once the shelling has stopped, but I can still make out more or less where the enemy forces are, at least in this area of the battlefield. The enemy is basically shouting their current strategies and positions out loud; the only way I could stop overhearing it is if I switched to a physiology incapable of it.

  "Control, this is Seraphim. Another group of targets is waiting ahead, approximately a quarter mile out from my position. Over."

  "Understood, Seraphim. Relaying now."

  Nervousness aside, I feel like I've proven myself to be very helpful. This is still the easy part of invading the Queen's territory, but so far things have gone almost perfectly, at least for our platoon. It's not really my job to know how well anyone else is doing, so no one wastes time telling me.

  As we approach the next set of trapped houses, though, I can tell that my fire team is going to be responsible for clearing one of them out. Now it's time to see if our success streak still holds strong when I'm the one executing rather than merely advising. It's difficult not to be anxious. It's been a long time since I've killed anyone, after all.

  We move in as a group, our steps careful and quiet as we cover the various possible routes in, out, and through the home. The Raptors here intend to break through the ceiling of the first floor, dropping from the rooms above to surround us the moment we enter. I communicate my plan as best as I'm able with silent hand signals, and our team leader picks up the gist, nodding in confirmation. Peering up through the window, I mark the target locations one after another with a laser pointer, and everyone gets into position. When the command comes, we fire.

  Bullets erupt out of our weapons, punching through the glass windows of the house, through the wooden ceiling of the first floor, and finally into the Raptors waiting above. It's easy for me to tell where they all are, even with the barrier in the way, and our weapons have plenty of penetration from this close. Not all the Raptors receive a fatal wound, but their plan is thrown into immediate disarray, members both dead and alive sounding off their failure.

  "Ambush formation nine: failure. Detected before entry."

  "Report: this unit (signature twelve) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature three) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature one) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature eight) is dead."

  "Report: this unit (signature four) is dead."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The smells are so potent this close up, my mind struggling with instincts to repeat and extend the range of the transmission. The surviving Raptors attempt to carry out what remains of their plan, but we aren't in the house and so dropping to the first floor doesn't let them surround us, it only gives us line of sight. The rapid cracks of rifle fire are the only sounds to punctuate the resulting massacre. It feels awful. Why are these poor Raptors even being ordered to try and hold this territory? They don't stand a chance outside the domain of the Queen. It's just senseless slaughter.

  "Sorry," I mutter soundlessly before I can stop myself, and the alien communication network explodes with confusion.

  "Sympathy received. Source unidentified!?"

  "Sympathy received. Source unidentified. Please resend identification?"

  "Sympathy received. Purpose not comprehended. Please resend identification and clarify."

  "New primary directive, battlezone thirteen, units nine through nineteen: identify source of unknown transmission."

  Shiiiit.

  "Unit ten, approaching last known target location."

  "Unit eleven, approaching last known target location."

  "Unit twelve, approaching last known target location."

  "Unit thirteen, approaching last known target location."

  "Unit fourteen, approaching last known target location."

  "Bunker down, they're charging us!" I shout out loud.

  "St. Louis Control to all units: we have confirmed sightings of an airborne Angel approaching the battlezone. We have confirmed sightings of an Angel approaching the battlezone."

  Fuuuuck! Damn it, why am I so stupid!? I don't have time to lament my idiocy, though, as Raptors start pouring out of nearby houses and rushing towards my squad. We're set up and ready, though, and automatic fire starts tearing through them as they continue their suicidal charge. Why would they… oh no!

  "They're going to drop from the roof!" I call out. We're still so close to the house that they can use it as cover to approach us by scaling the walls and dropping from above. We have to get into the street! Shit, too late!

  I grab one of the guys as he looks up just in time to see the Raptor falling towards him blades-first. Yanking him back, I grow a thick tentacle out of my head, catching the enemy weapons in my own flesh. With a grunt, I whip the Raptor away, returning my head to normal as one of my allies shoots it dead. Together, we make it to the middle of the street, our firing lines open and ready for the swarm.

  "Order to unknown signal: identify yourself."

  "Seraphim, Vermillion, Leonidas, the Angel is on heading to your location, be prepared for domain coverage."

  Yeah, I kind of figured that. What should I do here!? Do I just fight it!? The Angel is flying, and that is not exactly an area of combat I'm very experienced with. It's possible their domain can't stop bullets, but it seems absurd to assume that to be true. Why would the Angel be approaching us alone if it wasn't confident it could handle whatever we were throwing at it? Are we really prepared to fight this thing?

  "Repeat order: identify."

  "Identifying," I respond. "I am here. Please cease hostilities."

  Might as well give it a shot, right? It already knows where I am. Let's give peace a chance!

  "Identification confirmed. You who are blessed by Division are neither wanted nor welcome. Leave immediately, and we may deign not to hunt you down."

  Wait, crap. I just instinctively used whatever identification the brain I'm using considers to be its, so I apparently posed as the Angel I murdered. I mean, I suppose I totally would have rolled with that if it seemed like it would have worked, but I guess that Angel and this one aren't friends.

  "I am not blessed by Division," I respond silently.

  "This is St. Louis Control. The Angel has ceased approaching and is holding position."

  Yeah, I think I can guess as to why. The confusion and surprise I feel over the network is enough to stop somebody in their tracks.

  "The only answer to Contradiction is denial. Explain your existence."

  Or, translated another way, 'what the fuck are you talking about?' I'm not really sure how to answer that, though. Do I pretend to be some other kind of alien? I don't think that would work, because I have no idea what alien politics are like or how I would even impersonate something other than one of my templates. So do I tell the truth? Claim I'm a human with powers? That just doesn't seem like the right answer either. I generally prefer to keep as many cards close to my chest as I can when I'm in a volatile situation like this.

  "One cannot be of Division and not of Division," the Angel posits before I can continue. "As your claim cannot be true, it can only have been made in ignorance. Further, I feel no foolish one from your direction. Therefore, I see only one answer: you are native. Confirmation demanded."

  Well, no other way out now.

  "Confirmed. I am native."

  "Seraphim? Hey!" I flinch in shock as something touches my shoulder, shaking me lightly. "Are there any more of those things around, or not!?"

  Oh! Oh, right, um…

  "There are a few more," I confirm. "They aren't attacking. Sorry Corporal, can you give me a minute? I need to… figure something out. Super stuff."

  "This really isn't the best time, Seraphim!"

  "I know, sorry. But it has to be now."

  He stares at me in exasperation, but ultimately the fact that I'm his only real lifeline wins out again.

  "Alright, do what you need to do, but do it fast."

  I nod. Okay. Now what was the Angel saying? I sniff the air, as the conversation still lingers.

  "This is very interesting information. We were not aware your kind could understand us, let alone speak."

  "It's just me," I admit. "I am still learning."

  "Learning…?" the Angel echoes with confusion. "Your speech is fully comprehended, if arrogant and devoid of respect."

  "I am ignorant as to how respect is given and when it is deserved," I respond, trying to seem contrite.

  I sense something over the connection that can only really be translated as laughter.

  "That is very amusing. Please do not request to be educated."

  "Okay…?" I respond.

  "You have been deemed valuable to the Council," the Angel says, which is simultaneously a very exciting and absolutely terrifying thing to say. "You are offered safe entry to our Domain, provided you cease hostilities and agree to an escort."

  Okay, scary or not, that is… incredibly massive. It certainly sounds like the start of diplomatic relations to me. But do they want to negotiate or just keep me as a pet or something? The other aliens I talked to responded more or less automatically to every question I asked; is the same true for Angels? Can I just ask? I guess it doesn't hurt to try.

  "Would the purpose of my visit include a possible negotiation of peace terms between our people?" I ask.

  "Significant confusion. Peace terms? What need is there for peace terms? You are encroaching on our Domain. We are defending ourselves. Leave, and you will not be pursued," the Angel responds.

  "The land you claim as yours was originally ours," I remind them. "You and the people like you have been taking more and more space from us since you arrived. We need to reclaim safe places to live."

  "But this land was no one's Domain. It was not claimed."

  Oh my god. 'Domain.' An area of territory owned and controlled. Was all of this really so simple as a cultural misunderstanding? Do they use Queens to mark territory?

  "My people are very different from your people," I tell the Angel. "The way we measure ownership does not seem to be the way you measure ownership. By the standards we use, we owned the land, and you took it from us. We would like it back, but this is our first chance to negotiate with one of your kind. Would it be possible to come to a mutual agreement?"

  The Angel is silent for nearly half a minute, giving me time to devote more of my attention to secondary tasks like monitoring my surroundings and appeasing my squad. Sorry guys, but the potential for world peace is definitely more important here.

  "We understand the situation now," the Angel says. "This makes many things clear. Of course you do not use Domains. Your people coordinate, yet they have no councils, and no Queens. In your lands, the Chosen of many gods work together, indistinguishable from their weightless brethren. Tell me, native. Do you feel no pull? Do you speak with no god?"

  I hesitate. This conversation feels like it's going… well? Should I continue being honest? It feels wrong, but I guess I will. What lie could I tell, when I don't know the wants or needs of the being I'm speaking with?

  "I feel a pull. I speak with that which granted me my Domain occasionally," I tell them.

  "And yet you work alongside your god's enemies, and speak cordially to your own?"

  "...Is there a reason I shouldn't?" I ask hesitantly. "If any god disapproves of what I do, they've yet to inform me. And though we may be on opposite ends of the battlefield, I see that as no reason to be rude. I would prefer our people not have to fight, if at all possible."

  "Seraphim!" my corporal hisses at me. "They're asking for you on the radio!"

  Huh? Oh, right, I need to stop focusing so hard on this. I mean, I definitely still need to focus on it, but I should probably pay attention to what's going on around me, too.

  "This is Seraphim, say again, over," I say.

  Let's see, enemy status… there are still a few nearby.

  "Your questions continue to amuse. No, there is no reason you should not defy your god's will and nature."

  "I see," I answer, frowning to myself. So they have gods, and they clearly care a lot about their gods, but they don't think it's important to follow the will of their gods? I mean, I suppose it's a literal alien religion, maybe it has a different purpose in their culture than religion tends to have in ours. Either way, I should focus this conversation a little.

  "I do not mean to threaten or coerce you; if your troops remain nearby they will likely die," I say.

  "You are correct. Feel free to kill them."

  "You do not wish to preserve them…?" I ask hesitantly.

  "Consider them a gift."

  Something smacks my arm, and I jolt back to attention.

  "What the hell's the matter with you?" my corporal snaps. "You've been acting spacy ever since that Angel started coming at us."

  "Yeah, I'm trying to make sure it doesn't kill us," I tell him, the half-lie coming out on impulse. "There are still scattered aliens in the area but they aren't moving."

  "Wait, you stopped that Angel? How?"

  "Weird power crap," I explain impatiently. "Can you handle the radio for a second? I really don't wanna have to fight that thing."

  "Yeah, I mean, shit," he swears at nothing in particular, contacting Control back in my stead.

  "My culture does not generally accept individuals as gifts," I tell the Angel. I feel delight in response.

  "All the better of a gift, then. To further corrupt one as delightfully unique as you is a rare pleasure."

  What? What the hell does that mean?

  "Hey, the bigwigs want to know what you're doing with that Angel right now," a human interrupts me again.

  "Just distracting them, mostly," I frown. "Tapping into their pheromone system, gumming up their communication."

  If I think peace is possible, it would be worth it to just admit everything; no amount of my own personal secrets are worth potentially failing to end the entire war, and nobody is going to care too much about prosecuting me for identity theft when I am saving the entire world. But I just… I don't know if that is a possibility yet. So I don't want to tell anyone. I need more information to know what the right decision is. I can't risk trusting anyone else until I know how it will turn out.

  "Corrupt me?" I ask.

  "I desire you, ignorant Chosen. What is your god? Tell me, that I may tear you from its good graces."

  "I do not know the name of my god," I answer. I have my suspicions, and I have the name What If, but if he's going to call me ignorant I'll take the excuse to leave him in the dark.

  "Exceptional! Come to us. Abandon your people and let us raise you up!"

  What the hell is he talking about?

  "I feel like we have gotten distracted away from my intentions for this conversation. I would like to return to them, if you are amenable."

  I smell what I'm pretty sure is the pheromone equivalent of an exasperated sigh.

  "You consider this land yours," the Angel reaffirms.

  "It was ours, and many people died when you took it. We do not take deaths lightly, nor give lives so casually."

  "And so you seek peace."

  "Yes."

  What follows are a series of wordless impressions and emotions, likely born from the Angel considering my question, or discussing with their council. The hidden Raptors nearby dutifully project every scent and therefore nearly every thought, the message chained down the arm of the hive to reach me.

  "Wonderful ignorant Chosen. These lands are unfamiliar to us. Your kind is a mystery to us. You are dangerous, fascinating, and doubtlessly knowledgeable of countless things that still confuse us. We do not know how to properly walk under this world's weight. Your silence made your knowledge useless to us, but now that you can speak we can understand. You are, perhaps, the single most valuable thing we have discovered since we came here so long ago. And you want peace. It is a very easy thing to grant you."

  "That's wonderful!" I manage, shocked and delighted.

  "Therefore, the Council of Blasphemy has decided you shall have war."

  What? The Council of Blasphemy?

  "You shall be beaten, taken, and tainted," the Angel decrees. "But first, we shall break your armies. We shall shatter the lives you deem so valuable. And when all you value has been crushed, we shall excise your virtue and replace it with vice. That this land was once yours makes it all the sweeter to bring to ruin. May your god weep for every moment you still breathe!"

  Pure, unfiltered joy radiates over the pheromone network, a gleeful anticipation of what is to come, like a child waking up on Christmas morning.

  "You and your allies are ever most welcome! Allow us to formally invite you in! New primary objective, all units outside our Domain: reveal yourselves to the natives, and die."

  What the hell!? Why would they—

  "Contact!" someone calls, and a burst of gunfire drops an emerging Raptor. Then, more follow, but instead of charging our position and rushing to cover, they simply plod slowly in our direction, allowing themselves to be shot down. One Raptor collapses as the hydraulics in its leg burst open, and as my team switches to prioritize other targets, I watch it raise its own blades and impale itself through the chest.

  The death calls now have all changed their scents.

  "Report: this unit (signature thirteen) has completed all objectives."

  "Report: this unit (signature four) has completed all objectives."

  "Report: this unit (signature eight) has completed all objectives."

  "Holy shit," I mutter out loud, my heart hammering in my chest. A thunderous buzz drowns out sound from above us, helicopters advancing forward to intercept the Wasps slowly rising out of their hiding spots and into the sky. They stay hovering in place, allowing themselves to be cut down. Then the helicopters clear the area, and the artillery starts to crash down far ahead of us, spotters noticing the large groups of Raptors and Behemoths moving to simply present themselves as easy targets. All the while, confused and concerned radio reports fly over the comms channels. The one for me ends up being fairly straightforward.

  "Seraphim. Did you do this?"

  Not even proper radio protocol. My mind's sticking on that for some reason.

  "This is Seraphim to St. Louis Control. There are no longer any targets remaining outside of the Queen's domain. Over."

  "Seraphim! Did you do this!?"

  I swallow. My mouth feels dry.

  "I doubt I could repeat the trick. Over."

  "Your squad is ordered to withdraw immediately. Head to the closest LZ for air extraction. You will be debriefed on arrival. Over."

  "Copy, wilco," my sergeant responds for me from over with Anastasia's team. We swap over to squad comms and start coordinating our withdrawal. In my ears, Control's question keeps ringing over and over. Did I do this? No, that's not what I should be asking.

  What have I done?