I don't-- [Wait, no, he does have healing magic here. Sort of.] Never tried it on myself. [It might just be an injury transfer. Still, he might end up better than he is now. It would be hard for him to get worse and stay alive. Maybe if he could properly see what he's doing, but as far as seeing himself, he sees a sad-looking pile of skeleton. There's bones scattered around him, too; he hadn't noticed those before.] Can't move. Drugged.
[Maybe he should have mentioned that earlier. It's hard for him to figure out what's most important to say. Of course, then he hears the screeching of tires outside and his soul squeezes in a painful, hopeful sort of way. He forgets trying to figure out healing magic like this entirely.] That you? [Please. He wants to see his brother.]
[True, it has all been transferring injuries from others to himself, so far. But if it's a matter of transferring, surely it could be transferred in the other direction... and it's a lot easier to repair Papyrus's parts than Sans's.]
Y-Yeah, I'm coming up! [The footsteps on the stairs aren't quiet either, racing up the outer stair to reach the front door all the more quickly, and he rounds the corner to the living room in as clear a rush as the rest of it.
For all he's been seeing the scope of the injuries through the little drone, it's still different seeing himself, with two eyes that flicker through a few lighting settings. The leaking magic is spreading all through the carpet around his brother, the red light to all it all another clear sign that it's bad...
Papyrus crouches down beside Sans on the side with the scattered bones, raising a hand to pat at his brother's shoulder - and catching himself, thinking better of it just in time.]
You said you can't move. Can you... Can you feel them? The separated bones? [There's no question of whether Sans can feel the pain, not with the multiple alerts about screaming.]
Papyrus. [That's all he says at first, because Papyrus is here and even with the pain in his severed limbs for a few moments there's just relief. Papyrus is here, and he's fine, not hurt at all. This is so much better than last time.
He's not dead yet, though, and Papyrus is asking about the bones that plague doctor cut off. After a moment of consideration, trying to feel around the pain, he answers.] The bigger ones. [The radiuses and ulnas of his arm and wing. They had more magic in them to begin with, and so it takes longer to lose track of them. The tiny, delicate bones of his hand and wing are a lost cause, though.]
I'm here. [It's not an absentminded tone, more an acknowledgement and reassurance, but it's definitely not his full focus either. Eyes and hands fixate on the larger bones first, with only the helicopter staying to keep track of Sans's face.
As for the repairs... He hesitates, briefly, then tentatively picks up the largest bone of the damaged wing, tries to rest it in place where it should be. (A year ago, there would have been no hesitation - Papyrus would have tried to help Sans's hand first. A year ago, he hadn't experienced Sans's unhappiness about unbalanced wings, or given a shot at building his own. If it comes down to it... he can more easily build Sans a prosthetic arm than a functional wing.)
(But obviously he's going to try to help his brother's arm next. Especially if it seems like it's dusting faster.)]
[Sans can feel the bone of his wing nearby, almost in place. The eyelights on Sans's head are watching Papyrus, and they don't shift, but the ones on his halo do. They're sluggish, hazy and even dimmer than his main eyes, but he can still see with them, and he can see his wing from this angle. The red magic shifts to green around his wing. There's a popCRACK as his wing bones reconnect and the tibia of his left leg cracks in half at the same time. He yelps, the noise startled out of him. His voice still isn't built for being that loud; it cracks in the middle.]
Fuck! [Papyrus flinches back as his brother can't, raising his hands to avoid jostling anything (else?), and his eyes dart about in search of signs of damage.] Did I... You did something.
[The hints of green to Sans's magic may be fading back to red, but he's caught the sight in time. Good thing - for 0.1362 seconds, he'd worried he'd accidentally pressed down on something, and he's stronger than he used to be. It takes more mental effort to force himself not to tremble, to lower his hands back to the floor, to get back to the really time-sensitive task here.]
Please let me... get as much together again, as I can. Then... [He's bracing himself here, he knows Sans won't like the idea but he doesn't want to watch his brother scream while bones freshly crack over and over.] Don't just move them around in yourself. I'm right here! I'm helping...
S'rry. [Sans is still collecting himself; his leg is throbbing now, a different sensation from the sharper ones in his other limbs. He knows he startled Papyrus, and after a second realizes he probably scared Papyrus, and feels bad on reflex.
When Papyrus says not to move the injuries around on himself, he doesn't follow right away. It's obvious when he catches on, because most of his eyes sluggishly shift to look at Papyrus. He's in no state to have a coherent argument about this; he's aching, and he's pretty sure he's suddenly got tinnitus, or something.]
Never done it that way. [There's another long pause.] It hurts. Swapping 'em. [As if Papyrus didn't already know that and would suddenly change his mind upon the truly shocking realization that getting an injury hurts. With how slow Sans's mind is working right now, it's more just Sans expressing that he doesn't like the idea.
But it's not a no. It's reluctance, but not flat refusal. That probably says more about how injured Sans is than anything else he's said or not said.]
I remember your halo cracking. [It's not snapped, because he's dividing his attention too much between getting the next bones of the wing in place - as many as he can manage, before switching tasks to Sans's arm - to feel that strongly about the words. But it's abrupt and certain - he knows what he's offering. He's not retracting it.
It's not as though they have any reason to expect another attack any time soon, after all. Some small trickle of his attention - dedicated monitoring ambient texts and news broadcasts and network chatter for worry signs - has caught one or two odd attacks reported, but there's no sharp increase in anything amiss. Not yet.]
[Sans is quiet, trying to work through his thoughts. They keep drifting off; he's tired, he wants to rest, it's hard to figure out what to do about this and he wants to take a break.
The smallest of Sans's bones are dust by now, but there's enough to put something of Sans back together. Since he still can't move, it's easy to line everything up properly. The eyes on the wall are starting to fade away, the same way someone's limbs might stop working to keep their core alive. Sans is aware of it, the way anyone would be aware of some of their eyes no longer working, but it's a distant concern compared to the state of his body.]
Just this time. [Sans will go along with it, but only because this is serious. He doesn't want to, but he knows he probably should.]
This time is a little bit an emergency. [He says it in tone as if he's agreeing or conceding to Sans's boundary, but he isn't. The real agreement is to his rephrasing - just in an emergency, life or death. He's not accepting a closed door on future incidents like this, not if he's in perfectly good condition while Sans is literally dusting out in front of him.
His hands tremble as he works, and he locks it down again with carefully automated movements. That bone, and that bone, and... the smallest one he's tried to move yet, it crumbles under his fingers. He knows it's not from excessive pressure, he knows he's being gentle...
Which means this is as good as they're going to get, as much help as he can be without healing magic of his own. He flings a few more frustrated messages the tracker's way, because the lost minutes could have made a difference, before he forces himself to push it out of mind. What he can do now, what they can do now, that's what matters.]
Okay. Just think of it as me healing you, the way you've healed me! It's fine. It's fair. [His jaw trembles as he adds:] I would do it, i-if I could.
[The implications of Papyrus's agreement are completely lost on Sans in a way they wouldn't be under different circumstances. Sans's wing is in better shape to be repaired entirely than his arm and hand, as the hand was taken apart earliest; most of the hand is unsalvageable, though some of the wrist bones are still there and able to be put back where they should be, as much as Papyrus can. The basal and terminal phalanxes of Sans's wing are similarly dusted, though that still leaves the majority of Sans's wing theoretically intact.]
Okay. Okay. [Nothing happens immediately; the difference in monsters between intent and action is much thinner than in humans, but it's still there, and right now Sans is struggling to scrape together the focus to use any magic at all. But he can't dust right in front of Papyrus, even if he'd rather do that than die alone. He said he'd stick around. He has to do this. Slowly, anemically, the magic at Sans's limbs turns green.] Okay.
[There's a series of rapid pops as the bones reattach themselves. The wrist is sealed off; no hand attached, but no longer leaking magic, either. The tip of Sans's wing is similarly sealed shut. That's as much as he can do at once; his leg is left alone. That can be healed with time and a cast anyway.]
[It'll be okay, Papyrus knows. Even if it turns out he needs to hunker down and do expensive repair work on himself, he's always been more durable than his brother and he's even more durable now. And with his newly stubborn electric soul, there's likely nowhere in his body the damage could transfer to outright kill him for real. (...Angels have some associations that, maybe, could mean the same thing for Sans. Theoretically. But they can't be sure without testing it, and there's no way Papyrus will choose to let that happen - not when there's every risk that the stolen chunk below would pull the rest of him to it, and mean his brother would be stuck out of reach indefinitely. It's not an acceptable risk.)
He sets these reminders to periodically populate in his awareness the next several hours, and braces himself just in time for cracks to spread up his left arm abruptly and severely enough for a couple fingers to come loose. The whole thing burns like someone's been mis-soldering inside it again, or like a stubborn electrical soul flared out at the wrong moment. But more urgently, a sudden crack in his torso breaks directly through his main internal fan, warping a blade such that it scratches the hell out of that cavity before breaking loose.
Papyrus forces the fan off, gritting his jaw as he tries and fails to turn off the pain receptors in his arm, tries and succeeds at not obviously collapsing over it. There's a few other errors chiming for his attention - something in his hip, something in his right temple port, and now that he's squinting up at Sans's partly repaired limbs he can hear a faint musical melody from everything red, pink, or similarly colored in sight... And he has no idea what's causing that kind of synesthesia error.]
...Okay. I can only imagine... How much pain you were in, there. [His voice isn't strained with the pain, but only because the recorded quality of it is more monotone than usual. His face would be giving some of it away. There's no point really hiding it, but he can point out his minimal regrets by adding:] I didn't even know you could be that injured.
[Sans can't flinch away from watching the injuries spiderweb across Papyrus's body. If he could, seeing the familiar line of the way Papyrus's torso breaks would have done it. He's not coherent enough to regret, exactly; all he can manage is a general, awful upset that creeps out into a small, wretched noise. It's good that Papyrus is still speaking, because Sans doesn't know what he would have done if Papyrus had crumbled under the pain. But Papyrus has always been tougher than him. Sans didn't know he could be this injured, either.]
It was--trying to fix me. [And there's that laughter from before, bubbling up unevenly now that Sans is healed enough to be an awake kind of delirious again.] No killing intent. [Isn't that hilarious? It would have killed him eventually anyway, but look how long he lasted like that.]
Fix you? [There's just a little emphasis to make up for the forced monotone of his voice hiding the incredulity he feels, but again it shows on his face.] If that was... taking your changes. Why your hand?
[He doesn't actually expect Sans to have an answer, and doesn't mean to interrogate his still-injured brother about it. But it's still habit to demand answers even when there's no expectation of getting them, a habit extra reinforced by some of the memories of other outcomes underground. It's still something to maybe distract his brother with while he carefully rests his left arm in a minimally painful position and then halts its motion there.]
Infection. [Sans remembers that; even as it had gotten more and more difficult to focus on anything but the pain, the insistence that Sans was infected had been repeated enough to stick.] Said it was... Ruining the canyon. [Another half-hysterical laugh--as if he's the problem. He knows what's ruining the canyon, and you can't take a scalpel to it.
The eyes are starting to reappear in their places on the walls. Sans is still hurt, but at least he isn't dying anymore.]
[Between his own line of sight and the helicopter still floating about, he catches both the expressions on Sans's face and the flickering of eyes back into being. That latter's good, at least. He still scoffs a half-static sound in agreement with the laugh, because really.]
Seems a little confused. A little lost! Too bad nobody gave this helpful human a map. [Not sincere - he doesn't want anyone else going underground, not even those so strangely careful as to do this much damage nonlethally. It's better if nobody goes underground.
...And they've got enough mess to clean up as is. All the dust to gather, so it doesn't get mixed up with regular trash... He shoots the rhoomba a message, directing it to avoid this area until further notice.]
[Sans is stuck on the floor unless Papyrus moves him or he decides to risk another shortcut. Aside from a growing urge to stretch his wings, he isn't exactly in a hurry to start jumping around, but he doesn't like not being able to so much as twitch.
A moment later and he's trying to will himself to move, desperate, because his reappearing eyes have caught sight of someone outside. Sans's scramble isn't evident until his extra arms appear, lit up with magic, as he tries to drag himself that way.] No, no, outside, they're-- [Sans hisses as he pulls himself forward just enough to set his broken leg throbbing again.
There's someone outside on the lawn--someone with pink eyes and shadows pooling around their feet.]
[Even while trying to commiserate with his brother's hysterical laughter, Papyrus begins revising his multitasking priorities. Putting the pause on the dust cleaning, setting his arm to minimize the pain even if he can't seem to disable to pain yet, but also things like plotting his repair order, and the question of how best to set Sans's leg, or to ask if there's other less visible injuries left...]
What? [It's too many tasks to divide his attention between, when he's in pain himself. He pauses a few of those tasks, diverts his attention back. It looks like Sans has shifted and is now visibly upset, talking about outside. Papyrus doesn't actually have to stand to take a quick look, not with the front door's camera (the better to spot approaching delivery drivers) and the helicopter rising and changing course just at the idea of doing so.] Wait, what?
[There's motion in the yard, an unfamiliar figure of the mostly-human variety of monster, with shadows and oddly bright eyes and little else, but...] Wait, that's them?! Weren't you in the ruins?? [It's illegal for other monsters to be teleporting, now!]
Yeah, I don't know, how'd they even find our house-- [Sans tries pulling himself up with his extra arms again; his leg throbs, but he's expecting it now, so he gets a little farther, a bit closer to the couch, before he has to stop and take a break. Outside, the monster isn't moving; not approaching the house, but undeniably watching it. Examining the outside, maybe. And still standing in the yard. Maybe Sans shouldn't be wasting his magic on dragging himself across the floor.] Might be... Able to shortcut again. [He won't leave without Papyrus, though. Even then, he's not sure where they'd go if that thing is just going to follow him.]
[Yeah, Sans probably shouldn't be squirming around purposelessly like that. And Papyrus could stand to be jumping into action, like picking his brother up to help get him to safety. But they're both in pain, surprise and distraction enough not to think these things through right away. This danger isn't coming with the dubiously convenient warning of a kid covered in dust to make the nature of the situation clear, after all.]
Wait, don't wear yourself out yet. [His attention's flickering between their respective states, and keeping an digital view on the mystery monster. Not approaching, but watching...?] M-Maybe it knew the address... That's on record. Or it might have been stalking... well, me, I don't check for people following me. [Some regrets, there, but it hasn't actually been a problem before.] So, somewhere we don't normally go...?
[What's a good place to avoid weird monsters, though?]
Somewhere inside. [Sans doesn't want to be outside like this even without the guy who caused it lurking around, even if he wouldn't mind the comfort of a graveyard right now. But the places Sans can think of aren't workable; he's not chancing taking that thing to Jemma's house, the dig site and museum are closed for the evening... Is a grocery store or something like that a good idea? The hotel? Those are all places they go regularly.] Dunno. [This isn't the best time for Sans to be trying to come up with a plan, of course. Not a great time for either of them to be doing this. Sans stares up at the ceiling, but most of his visual attention is on the eyes that can see outside.
The monster outside starts circling out of Sans's field of view, going around to the back of the house.] Where're they going?
Shit. I don't... [Papyrus makes for the window, opening it to let the helicopter out. For one period of time, he'd surrounded the house in cameras. And then he'd felt silly about it, and taken them all down, only for a thief to sneak in a window. Now there's just a couple, and they don't cover a full 360 degree of the building - it takes until the monster is far enough around the corner for him to spot it with the outside view and send the copter drone over the rooftop.] Back yard. Maybe, maybe it saw the camera...?
[But even in pain and distress, Papyrus still isn't one to choose to take the blame for things like this, and he shoves the possibility aside to keep scrabbling for a sense of control here. He ducks down next to his brother, trying to gently lift on the side with the injured limbs.] Sans. You said it drugged you. How? If we go somewhere with people, and it manages to find us... [Would they be putting random bystanders in danger, he means.]
Needle. I think. In my wing. [Sans is entirely limp in Papyrus's grip, but aside from his leg, his left half is mostly injury-free. Still, lifting Sans up is going to let his wings unfold and hang, limp but in nine feet of the way.
The monster is standing in the backyard now, watching. It's examining the potential entrances.]
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spaghettimonster) wrote2021-07-31 02:32 am
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[Maybe he should have mentioned that earlier. It's hard for him to figure out what's most important to say. Of course, then he hears the screeching of tires outside and his soul squeezes in a painful, hopeful sort of way. He forgets trying to figure out healing magic like this entirely.] That you? [Please. He wants to see his brother.]
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Y-Yeah, I'm coming up! [The footsteps on the stairs aren't quiet either, racing up the outer stair to reach the front door all the more quickly, and he rounds the corner to the living room in as clear a rush as the rest of it.
For all he's been seeing the scope of the injuries through the little drone, it's still different seeing himself, with two eyes that flicker through a few lighting settings. The leaking magic is spreading all through the carpet around his brother, the red light to all it all another clear sign that it's bad...
Papyrus crouches down beside Sans on the side with the scattered bones, raising a hand to pat at his brother's shoulder - and catching himself, thinking better of it just in time.]
You said you can't move. Can you... Can you feel them? The separated bones? [There's no question of whether Sans can feel the pain, not with the multiple alerts about screaming.]
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He's not dead yet, though, and Papyrus is asking about the bones that plague doctor cut off. After a moment of consideration, trying to feel around the pain, he answers.] The bigger ones. [The radiuses and ulnas of his arm and wing. They had more magic in them to begin with, and so it takes longer to lose track of them. The tiny, delicate bones of his hand and wing are a lost cause, though.]
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As for the repairs... He hesitates, briefly, then tentatively picks up the largest bone of the damaged wing, tries to rest it in place where it should be. (A year ago, there would have been no hesitation - Papyrus would have tried to help Sans's hand first. A year ago, he hadn't experienced Sans's unhappiness about unbalanced wings, or given a shot at building his own. If it comes down to it... he can more easily build Sans a prosthetic arm than a functional wing.)
(But obviously he's going to try to help his brother's arm next. Especially if it seems like it's dusting faster.)]
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[The hints of green to Sans's magic may be fading back to red, but he's caught the sight in time. Good thing - for 0.1362 seconds, he'd worried he'd accidentally pressed down on something, and he's stronger than he used to be. It takes more mental effort to force himself not to tremble, to lower his hands back to the floor, to get back to the really time-sensitive task here.]
Please let me... get as much together again, as I can. Then... [He's bracing himself here, he knows Sans won't like the idea but he doesn't want to watch his brother scream while bones freshly crack over and over.] Don't just move them around in yourself. I'm right here! I'm helping...
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When Papyrus says not to move the injuries around on himself, he doesn't follow right away. It's obvious when he catches on, because most of his eyes sluggishly shift to look at Papyrus. He's in no state to have a coherent argument about this; he's aching, and he's pretty sure he's suddenly got tinnitus, or something.]
Never done it that way. [There's another long pause.] It hurts. Swapping 'em. [As if Papyrus didn't already know that and would suddenly change his mind upon the truly shocking realization that getting an injury hurts. With how slow Sans's mind is working right now, it's more just Sans expressing that he doesn't like the idea.
But it's not a no. It's reluctance, but not flat refusal. That probably says more about how injured Sans is than anything else he's said or not said.]
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It's not as though they have any reason to expect another attack any time soon, after all. Some small trickle of his attention - dedicated monitoring ambient texts and news broadcasts and network chatter for worry signs - has caught one or two odd attacks reported, but there's no sharp increase in anything amiss. Not yet.]
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The smallest of Sans's bones are dust by now, but there's enough to put something of Sans back together. Since he still can't move, it's easy to line everything up properly. The eyes on the wall are starting to fade away, the same way someone's limbs might stop working to keep their core alive. Sans is aware of it, the way anyone would be aware of some of their eyes no longer working, but it's a distant concern compared to the state of his body.]
Just this time. [Sans will go along with it, but only because this is serious. He doesn't want to, but he knows he probably should.]
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His hands tremble as he works, and he locks it down again with carefully automated movements. That bone, and that bone, and... the smallest one he's tried to move yet, it crumbles under his fingers. He knows it's not from excessive pressure, he knows he's being gentle...
Which means this is as good as they're going to get, as much help as he can be without healing magic of his own. He flings a few more frustrated messages the tracker's way, because the lost minutes could have made a difference, before he forces himself to push it out of mind. What he can do now, what they can do now, that's what matters.]
Okay. Just think of it as me healing you, the way you've healed me! It's fine. It's fair. [His jaw trembles as he adds:] I would do it, i-if I could.
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Okay. Okay. [Nothing happens immediately; the difference in monsters between intent and action is much thinner than in humans, but it's still there, and right now Sans is struggling to scrape together the focus to use any magic at all. But he can't dust right in front of Papyrus, even if he'd rather do that than die alone. He said he'd stick around. He has to do this. Slowly, anemically, the magic at Sans's limbs turns green.] Okay.
[There's a series of rapid pops as the bones reattach themselves. The wrist is sealed off; no hand attached, but no longer leaking magic, either. The tip of Sans's wing is similarly sealed shut. That's as much as he can do at once; his leg is left alone. That can be healed with time and a cast anyway.]
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He sets these reminders to periodically populate in his awareness the next several hours, and braces himself just in time for cracks to spread up his left arm abruptly and severely enough for a couple fingers to come loose. The whole thing burns like someone's been mis-soldering inside it again, or like a stubborn electrical soul flared out at the wrong moment. But more urgently, a sudden crack in his torso breaks directly through his main internal fan, warping a blade such that it scratches the hell out of that cavity before breaking loose.
Papyrus forces the fan off, gritting his jaw as he tries and fails to turn off the pain receptors in his arm, tries and succeeds at not obviously collapsing over it. There's a few other errors chiming for his attention - something in his hip, something in his right temple port, and now that he's squinting up at Sans's partly repaired limbs he can hear a faint musical melody from everything red, pink, or similarly colored in sight... And he has no idea what's causing that kind of synesthesia error.]
...Okay. I can only imagine... How much pain you were in, there. [His voice isn't strained with the pain, but only because the recorded quality of it is more monotone than usual. His face would be giving some of it away. There's no point really hiding it, but he can point out his minimal regrets by adding:] I didn't even know you could be that injured.
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It was--trying to fix me. [And there's that laughter from before, bubbling up unevenly now that Sans is healed enough to be an awake kind of delirious again.] No killing intent. [Isn't that hilarious? It would have killed him eventually anyway, but look how long he lasted like that.]
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[He doesn't actually expect Sans to have an answer, and doesn't mean to interrogate his still-injured brother about it. But it's still habit to demand answers even when there's no expectation of getting them, a habit extra reinforced by some of the memories of other outcomes underground. It's still something to maybe distract his brother with while he carefully rests his left arm in a minimally painful position and then halts its motion there.]
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The eyes are starting to reappear in their places on the walls. Sans is still hurt, but at least he isn't dying anymore.]
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Seems a little confused. A little lost! Too bad nobody gave this helpful human a map. [Not sincere - he doesn't want anyone else going underground, not even those so strangely careful as to do this much damage nonlethally. It's better if nobody goes underground.
...And they've got enough mess to clean up as is. All the dust to gather, so it doesn't get mixed up with regular trash... He shoots the rhoomba a message, directing it to avoid this area until further notice.]
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A moment later and he's trying to will himself to move, desperate, because his reappearing eyes have caught sight of someone outside. Sans's scramble isn't evident until his extra arms appear, lit up with magic, as he tries to drag himself that way.] No, no, outside, they're-- [Sans hisses as he pulls himself forward just enough to set his broken leg throbbing again.
There's someone outside on the lawn--someone with pink eyes and shadows pooling around their feet.]
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What? [It's too many tasks to divide his attention between, when he's in pain himself. He pauses a few of those tasks, diverts his attention back. It looks like Sans has shifted and is now visibly upset, talking about outside. Papyrus doesn't actually have to stand to take a quick look, not with the front door's camera (the better to spot approaching delivery drivers) and the helicopter rising and changing course just at the idea of doing so.] Wait, what?
[There's motion in the yard, an unfamiliar figure of the mostly-human variety of monster, with shadows and oddly bright eyes and little else, but...] Wait, that's them?! Weren't you in the ruins?? [It's illegal for other monsters to be teleporting, now!]
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Wait, don't wear yourself out yet. [His attention's flickering between their respective states, and keeping an digital view on the mystery monster. Not approaching, but watching...?] M-Maybe it knew the address... That's on record. Or it might have been stalking... well, me, I don't check for people following me. [Some regrets, there, but it hasn't actually been a problem before.] So, somewhere we don't normally go...?
[What's a good place to avoid weird monsters, though?]
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The monster outside starts circling out of Sans's field of view, going around to the back of the house.] Where're they going?
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[But even in pain and distress, Papyrus still isn't one to choose to take the blame for things like this, and he shoves the possibility aside to keep scrabbling for a sense of control here. He ducks down next to his brother, trying to gently lift on the side with the injured limbs.] Sans. You said it drugged you. How? If we go somewhere with people, and it manages to find us... [Would they be putting random bystanders in danger, he means.]
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The monster is standing in the backyard now, watching. It's examining the potential entrances.]