[OPEN] and you may ask yourself

[nascensibility]

Who: Evelyn O'Connell & YOU!
Where: The library, halls, kitchen, parlors, outside grounds - any public space.
When: Night/Early morning of January 7
Rating: PG, PG-13 at most
Summary: Evelyn has always had the occasional nightmares, mild hallucinations, and sleepwalking problems ever since she came to the conclusion she was a reincarnated princess, but there's something to be said for locking your door when prone to somnambulism.

The Story:

She never used to dream as much as she does now, vivid and sharp. On more than one occasion before Rick's arrival Evelyn has found herself on her balcony, in the foyer of her rooms, with no memory of how she got there.

Before her death they had been wildly distracting, a reprieve from the night terrors of old but no less concerning: another person in another time, memories seeping into her mind like dark, insidious floodwaters, emotions that did not belong to her. The wrenching pain, happiness, fear of someone else.

They had rationalized it as a past life, as if the explanation itself were a rational one.

With the smoke of torches in her eyes, lotus and honey thick on her tongue, in her hair, she slips from a bed of linen and carved wood - Hathor's image, wide and loving and lush. Lamps burning oil perfumed with blossoms from the Nile's bank, hold steady light in a chamber of swirling heat. In the far distance the sem'ayt play drums and cymbals, ney-pipes accompanying a carnal beat.

Bare feet brushing carpet and chilled wood, dressed in precious little else but a nightgown and absent the source of warmth still under the sheets, Evelyn sways in place for a moment in the bedroom, seeing and not seeing in the wake of so much loss. A new year and new hurt to compartmentalise, to measure, and she feels the pull of the music that isn't there. Her fingertips trail over a sideboard; she leaves the room.

A decoration of scented fat seeps slowly through her wig, melting into the fibers and dripping down her back, following the curve of her spine. She has become less circumspect of late, alone in the wide expanse of halls. A power in her own right as designated by the gods, by Pharaoh-and-Egypt, her father dotes but knows the will of his sloe-eyed daughter, his favored child.

The pipes are louder now, as she moves to the great hall and nods to the attendants to reach for the handles of the entrance, intricate cobras to mimic the form of Wadjet.

With her chin held high, visualising nothing but alabaster and flame, Evelyn turns the knob and pushes the door

Open.







[NOTE: Feel free to literally encounter her anywhere she might get to that isn't locked, and this is including outside, although it'll be cold as a witch's tit because it's still January. She can be startled to wakefulness but will also be incredibly confused!

Please specify preferred location of interaction in tag headers.]

Comments

Alex's room because how's that for first impressions

[rosswood]

Alex doesn't sleep much these days. He never slept well before, mind, because things still nag at him. No matter how he rationalizes, no matter how he spins through every cycle of his past behavior, there's no dismissing the screams in his head as he left each and every one of them to die. He led them into those cracked, fragmenting places and left them. He knew what he was doing. He knew why he had to do it. He had to make sure.

He's not in the mood for waking up in a cold sweat tonight, so he tugs on a thick jacket, retrieves his communication device, and asks the closet for a camera. It gives him an older model, one of the kinds that runs on tapes, but that's fine, he's used to it, and tapes tend to have a finer, more cinematic quality than the newer, sleeker cameras with their higher frame rates and holy god he just really doesn't want to think about how he's going to venture outside and just wander aimlessly like someone with a death wish.

He'd unlocked his door as soon as he mustered the intent to ditch sleep for the night, but he really wasn't expecting anyone to open the fucking door in the five minutes it took for him to get everything together. But open the door does, and inside steps -

"What the - " Alex jumps, nearly slamming into the closet in the process, backpedaling wildly. "What're you - get out!"

sooo maybe I should mention that Evie knew our old Alex...............

[nascensibility]

Similarly, Evelyn doesn't sleep much either, but this should come as no surprise when she's walking about in the middle of the night in nothing but thin bedclothes. The chill of January curls through the halls but she feels none of it, warmed by torchlight and the spice of incense.

The scent of the feast coils around her like a snake, all honeyed wines and pigeon, duck, salt. Sweetcakes and olives, bread and rich milk. Her father's revelry is accepted by the priests - with the rewards of heaven and the dark earth on the riverbanks he is permitted carnality to satiate his desires but she seeks reprieve from the ache in her temples; too much, drunk on overstimulation.

Nefertiri begs leave and departs, sweeping aside another curtain-

"Oh- I- I...oh my god."

Blinking rapidly, clearly shocked into wakefulness and feeling ill - suddenly so ill, and so cold - Evelyn clutches herself, fingers wrapped around her arms and stumbles back. Her shoulder slams into the jamb and she cries out again in surprise, looking very much the startled deer, chest heaving.

"Where- Wh-Where am I?"

lmaooooo SECOND IMPRESSIONS IT IS

[rosswood]

That woke her up. That also woke Alex up, because in his haste to get the fuck away he backed right up into the wall and his shoulders are now throbbing painfully from the sudden impact. He flails inelegantly, scrabbling for his phone, his camera, anything that might serve as an improvised weapon, and comes up empty.

"Wh - you're in my room." And now that he has a minute to process...wow, talk about the world's least threatening intrusion. Just some lady wandering into his room in the middle of the damn night, you know, totally normal. "Did you, uh - are you, like, in the next room over, or - because I can understand the confusion, all right, it's a big place, lotsa rooms, right?"

He's talking frantically, almost babbling, because she looks kind of scared and he doesn't want to bite her head off but his heart is still doing a hundred miles per hour and his mouth seems to be wanting to keep up.

Kitchen

[radiopalkiller]

He watches the handle turn underneath his palm, a quiet squeak on every second rotation. Not any minute hand or hour hand he watches, but this. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one,eighty-two, the beans don't quite crackle like a fireplace, but the background noise is good enough. Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, he doubts he needs the full one hundred rotations every night, but what is there, if not time?

The scent of freshly ground coffee fills the air.

The clattering at his back startles him. Like wind chimes made of pots and pans. Or somebody brushing against the latter on her way into the kitchen.

"You're up quite late."

Philip doesn't usually expect her company during his more clandestine cooking hours. He looks for his watch on the counter.

"Or... quite early?"

[nascensibility]

Another smell drifts into the mint, the lettuce, the fish - a spread to rival the main course, in which she did not partake - but it is bitter, acrid. Warm, but strong in the way that a sweet beer is strong, almost intoxicating. Nefertiri pauses by a small table, fingertips resting on carved wood-

-and twitching as she stares blankly, past Philip, into the middle distance. The chimes behind her, pipes and small cymbals, die down as the pots and pans settle and a voice greets her.

It is familiar, and very far away.

"Who are you," she whispers, eyes half-lidded, eyebrows furrowing.

A man who dares to speak out of turn, to address his Pharoah's precious child as though they were close.

No man has that right.

[radiopalkiller]

A spray of cold water is to cats what that question is to Philip. He flinches away from every word, and only after a deep breath does he step closer. Around the counter, where utensils don't dangle in his line of sight, and he can see her face. Her eyes, half-lidded the way her words are barely half-spoken, quiet.

He stands in front of her plainly, where she can see him, could see him, if she was looking at anything in this room at all. Philip frowns, and waves his hand in the air between them, with little force or certainty.

"It's me, Philip. You're... really not all there, are you?"

Library!

[singloversing]

Wirt has always been a night owl, even in his own world. At home it was proper insomnia that caused it, often exacerbated by his anxiety. Now though, he finds he can slip into (thankfully) dreamless sleep almost too easily, and falling asleep is just a thing that happens with minimal effort - the way he suspects it should be by default.

He's still prone to staying up late. He likes how quiet and empty it is at night, and there's something poetic in the silence. It's a serene world for only those who are awake to see it. ...Plus, he's been concerned that someone will realize he's been reading too many books on death lately, and he's less likely to be caught with yet another one if he goes to the library when very few people will be there.

Still, it feels like he's trespassing, even though the library doesn't have hours of operation exactly. So when he hears someone other than him enter the library, he startles badly enough that he accidentally knocks over the small stack of somewhat morbid books beside him, and then he claps his hands over his mouth before he can yelp. Maybe...maybe if he just stays like this, no one will come into this part of the library. Maybe they'll just assume they're hearing things and not investigate mysterious falling book noises.

Or...maybe he's busted. He's totally busted. He's probably not allowed in here at all. He has no idea what to do to save himself at first. It takes considerable effort, but he eventually makes his legs move and as quietly as he can he runs to hide behind the nearest chair. From there he watches as the sound of footsteps moves closer and closer.]

[nascensibility]

Night owl or not there are others in the dark.

In the library Evelyn sees a great hypostyle hall, columns stretching long and tall with ornate capitals, the lotus flower a curling bud to support the many lintels. Her progress is slow for the admiring, a beringed finger dragging over supposed sandstone and alabaster.

It is Egypt's domain, the God's domain
she is Egypt-touched
God-touched
it is hers.

Pausing at the edge of a wide base, a curtain and flickering light beyond in the dark she takes a careful breath. Someone is there - the Medjai know better than to hide in the shadows unless ordered, their duty to be a present show of strength comes first. Visible protection comes first.

"Tnı͗?"

[singloversing]

Wirt sees Evelyn come into view and his stomach sinks into the ground. She's probably literally the worst person he could have ever gotten caught by. This is practically her library, so if he's trespassing (which he's...still not really sure he is) then he's basically trespassing in her territory. Kind of. Even though it's a public space. Either way, he still irrationally feels like he's in deep trouble just for being there.

"Um...I-I'm sorry," he says. He didn't quite catch what she said to him, but an apology seems like a good place to start. "I didn't mean to disturb you o-or make a lot of noise or anything like that. I-I mean, everyone knows you're not supposed to be loud in a library; I'd never do that on purpose or anything. And I...I-I know I probably shouldn't be here so late. If there's a curfew here then I'm probably like, way past it or something. But-- but I didn't mean to intrude, I...u-um, let me get those, sorry."

He bends down and picks up the books he knocked to the ground before, and stacks them up neatly on the table...and that's when he realizes Evelyn hasn't said anything. Something doesn't seem right about that.

"...Uh. ...Are you okay?"

Garden

[mourning_ghost]

There are nights when Nageki has trouble sleeping. Some nights, it's because of bad dreams. Memories from the past that haunt his sleep. Other nights, his thoughts and worries swirl around in his head and keep his eyes from closing. This night it's his thoughts that keep him awake.

He's looking up at the stars from the garden. He doesn't notice the cold, though the feel of snow under his feet is unmistakable. It just doesn't bother him.

It's quiet enough to hear footsteps. Though it's still too dark for Nageki to see well (this is one of the few times he'd envy human biology), he looks around. He's barely able to make out the outline of a human female off to the side.

"Do you need anything?" he asks, although he isn't sure what anyone could need in a garden.

(⊙ヮ⊙)

[nascensibility]

Perhaps if this were an average walk in the gardens at a reasonable hour with coats, hats, and scarves, it would only seem slightly unusual to encounter an enormous mourning dove. This is, however, neither a normal time of day, nor is it a time when Evelyn has her own wits about her, which is why she's walking through a planter of foxgloves, running her fingertips over the coiled petals in her nightgown.

The Nile does not abut her chambers but a small allowance was made in the bathing room, water siphoned in through a system of channels. It is accessible throughout the whole of the royal complex but this one is hers, the edges lined with planters of lilies and soft grasses, a breeze catching the swath of linen hanging over her head.

Downriver, far downriver she can hear the crews in their boats, preparing for another hunt. The hippopotami are large this year.

Evelyn hears nothing.

^_^

[mourning_ghost]

Sentient life can adjust to a wide variety of circumstances. Before Wonderland, Nageki wouldn't have thought twice about being ignored like this. Almost every bird that entered St. Pigeonation's library had been incapable of seeing or hearing him. Now, it feels strange to be so easily overlooked.

Something, curiosity perhaps, makes him approach. He still cannot see her face or even the plants she is walking on. But now he can see enough to realize that her clothes won't protect her against the winter chill.

"You should go inside," he tries again, a little louder this time. "You'll get sick out here."

Fifth Floor Hallway

[mypartnerintime]

Since her arrival about twenty-four hours ago, Max has had to learn a lot- about mirrors and events, and all sorts of other things she'll have to sort through for days. To start, she'd begun reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. But it was hard to make any real progress. It was just too... surreal, like she's being made fun of.

Part of her still thinks that's the case. Seriously, how much can someone's life and entire way of seeing the world change in just a handful of hours? She'd been struggling to deal with returning to normalcy back home, and now the universe throws her the strangest thing it possible can. She doesn't know how to feel about that.

But some things did carry over- whether in Oregon or in Wonderland, sleeping is still hard, especially in the dark. Too much baggage. So around midnight, she shuffled out of her room, Lewis Carroll's book stowed away in her sling bag.

The place is kind of creepy at night, but poking around is better than lying awake in bed. In her hand is her old Oregon phone- it's just about useless but she likes to keep it around- with the built-in flashlight on. Aiming it down the fifth floor hallway, she catches sight of someone- a woman. Okay... definitely creepy, she thinks. Relax, Max, it's probably someone new, like you. God I hope I don't regret this.

"Hey," she half-whispers, half-calls. "Are you lost?"

[nascensibility]

Not lost, no.

Far from it, if by "lost" the girl is referring to a physical sense of place. Lost in her mind, perhaps, in someone else's memories and someone else's friends, subordinates, father. A distant part of Evelyn might find comfort in knowing that the woman she is reincarnated from lost her father too, at a young age. A distant part of Evelyn might also worry that her stubbornness isn't all that different from Nefertiri's, either.

She doesn't hear the voice calling to her, not at first, but turns toward the sound regardless. Garbled, the words are nothing but the noise of a feast, splitting bones and swallowed wine.

Evelyn looks through the girl, but begins to approach slowly.

[mypartnerintime]

Well, shit. Max is indeed starting to regret this. Are you kidding? Creepy as hell. This woman better not be one of those zombies she heard about. Max backs up a step, almost involuntarily, but keeps the stairs nearby so she can bolt if she needs to.

"What are you doing?" She can't keep the nervousness out of her voice, nor can she keep it at a whisper- it comes out louder than she means it to. The light on Evelyn swings back and forth as Max shakes the phone, trying to catch the woman's attention. Maybe she should have brought some form of self-defense. Like a taser, because that would definitely end well.

[circlejerked]

Sleep is hard to come by when you're trapped somewhere with no plan of escape, imagine that. Anders is yet another person who's had trouble relaxing the last few nights; like many people, it's a difficulty he's faced before even when he hadn't had the taint coursing through his veins, inflaming his nightmares with the putrid stench of darkspawn.

A year after being brought to the Circle, Anders had still found himself kicking his bed covers around in the middle of the night, anxiety turning his legs restless and his mind a churning sea of half-dreamed fears. To think that he'd be sleeping among strangers for the foreseeable future had been a difficult adjustment. It's no different here--he's slept in spurts not so much out of desire as out of need to keep mind and body sharp--except that he's older now, better able to control his fears.

Still unused to the bed and the sounds of the mansion shifting in the quiet of the night, Anders had woken up and dressed, creeping carefully out the door with his staff fastened snugly on his back. It would be dawn soon, safe to go looking around the grounds again.

"Safe." He has to wonder if there is such a thing. What ugliness could be lurking under this pretty facade.

He's sitting on the front steps, unfocused eyes aimed somewhere at the horizon, when the front door opens behind him. At first he thinks it's an early bird getting a jump on the day, or someone else come to sweat out their sleeplessness with a walk, but the first thing he sees upon turning around is a set of delicate toes.

Bare feet? In this temperature?

[nascensibility]

Delicate toes are attached to delicate feet, summarily attached to a small, delicate person, who under normal circumstances would not venture outside into the chill of early January without at least four layers of clothing. A light breeze blows, catches the hem of the nightgown and she should shiver, she should, but all she feels is

Heat.

It is smothering in its fury, oppressive and thick with the lamps and stagnant air, choking her nose and lungs. Across the hall she can see Anck su-Namun, poised and polite not three seats away from Seti, head bowed. She is ignoring the meal, looking to her hands as though it absolved her of being Pharoah's favoured concubine.

The heat curls itself in the pit of her stomach and she approaches

Taking a step down and wobbling uncertainly for a moment, Evelyn lifts her chin and looks ahead. Another step. Another. Two more and frost gives way to snow, several inches thick under her and soft.

[sponsored]

It's not Faith's business.

It's not. Who knows what kinda ridiculous bullshit the mansion could be pulling on her? Hell, she could trigger another bad trip somehow. So it's definitely not her business.

The inner monologue works for a few paces, as she walks toward the library woman, Faith's favorite axe hanging at her side. Her feet slow down without permission, and her eyes track as Sleeping Walky comes closer and closer -- as if both lost and completely at home here.

So Faith waves. An awkward almost-salute that she instantly lets drop. She could count that as a try and just truck on back to her room, now. Oh yeah I saw her, couldn't wake her up. Too bad she sleepwalked off the roof, yeah.

"Hey, lady. Uhhh-- Edith?" she says, volume lower than she'd use to actually wake someone. It's not Faith's business and this is Wonderland. She should definitely leave it alone. And yet, she chooses to heft her axe into its sheath at her back before taking a few steps into Eve's trajectory. It's just the librarian, so the knives in Faith's belt remain in place -- a fight is the last thing on her mind.

Her voice raises, this time: "Yo, you OK? C'mon, snap out of it! Gonna somersault down the stairs, or something."

(translation in hovertext over dialogue!)

[nascensibility]

It's not Faith's business, and yet a prevailing sense of compassion seems to override her self-preservation when she calls out to the woman wandering helplessly down the hall, much of her consciousness trapped behind a dream. Evelyn, would could not respond even if she wanted to, trails her fingers along the wallpaper as she walks slowly down the corridor.

She hums quietly, to herself, and with half-lidded eyes looks to the floor.

The cat curls around her ankles, rubbing strands of fur against linen and marking her as its own. In the shrine of Bast it is not uncommon to see the animals, which rule its halls and ensnare the mice that threaten stores of grain.

They are wicked, wonderful creatures. Distantly, someone calls to her.

"...A'īd min fadlik?"

kitchen

[krmvgivv]

Dipper had hoped that with Bill gone, he'd have less nightmares. But nope, turns out those were just normal nightmares from his subconscious having seen a lot of really bad stuff. That's... probably good. The less Bill's been messing with his mind, the better. On the other hand, it means he still isn't sleeping much.

So right now, he's doing the next best thing and making a sandwich. This late at night, he really isn't expecting to see anyone else out, but the mansion's a weird place. There are lots of people with sleep schedules even worse than his.

He looks up, startled, when he hears the sound of the door, but he relaxes when he sees that it's Evie. "Oh. Hi. I was just...." he trails off, squinting at her. There's something... weird in her face. "Are you... okay?"

[nascensibility]

The Mansion is a strange place to which Evelyn has become accustomed, for the most part. She knows the library like the back of her hand in spite of its changing shelves, the knows the people (many of them from an admittedly clinical perspective, others much closer and more intimate). She knows that she suffers frequent nightmares and 'bouts of sleepwalking, but the former is for herself and the latter has never hurt anyone.

She doesn't see Dipper.

She sees an antechamber to a smaller, more private room, the walls adorned with gilt and bright paints, a reflection of immense wealth. She sees two guards standing post next to a chest, one on each side, their garb old and armoured with plates, spears in their fists.

She does not speak, but she does drift listlessly to the breadbox on the counter, mind's eye projecting the image of the Scorpion King's seal on the lid.

[rickochet]

Perhaps it's also part of his cautious nature, but due to a long series of life choices, Rick had never been a heavy sleeper. Falling in too deep a sleep when he was living on the streets attracted the attention of thieves and other unsavory types. In the Legion, he had been lucky to grab an uninterrupted nap longer than a few hours. In Cairo prison, it was a matter of self-preservation to sleep with one eye open. London life was sometimes too comfortable to rest peacefully, and life in the field brought up the same concerns that living on the street had.

Thirty years of light sleeping became a blessing when Evelyn had first started to sleepwalk. He would wake when she stirred and would keep a watchful eye on her until he could coax her back to bed. Those were nights when he would watch the sun rise through the cracks in their bedroom curtains, and Evelyn would wake to find her husband finally dozing in a nearby armchair. Evelyn's dreams and her sleep waking turned out to have been triggered by the Egyptian Year of the Scorpion and her past life's sworn duty to protect some bracelet-- All Rick wanted to do was protect his family.

That matter ended in excitement and danger (none of which Evelyn here in Wonderland had experienced), and her nighttime wanderings had stopped during the following months.

Perhaps it was that false sense of security that pulled Rick into such an uncommonly deep sleep on this night. Despite the weirdness inherent in the world, there's a false sense of security in the normalcy of their rooms Evie had created.

Rick dreams about the desert. About large bugs and golden inlay bearing the same mark as the one tattooed on his right forearm. Hadn't they been through this already? No, not all of them had been through it. Not completely. Evelyn hadn't see the light on the other side with her own eyes, and something about that unconscious thought that lurked in the back of his mind even in his dreams lured Rick from his deep sleep. The struggle to wake is like quicksand, but the cold bolt of fear that strikes Rick upon finally making it back to the conscious world is enough to shake the drowsiness from his mind.

She's gone.

He's calling her name before his feet even hit the floor. Their rooms are not so numerous (unlike their house) that it only takes a couple minutes to confirm that fact. He is clothed and out the door in the very next minute, before his mind has even thought of a plan of action. The manor is an oddity. Moving libraries and an indeterminable number of rooms with occupants from different times and places, most of whom Rick had never met. Where could he even begin? Panic starts to settle in, but Rick forces it down so his rational mind could take hold.

Unconscious minds tended to seek out familiar places, and Evelyn had shown Rick her usual haunts soon after he first arrived in an effort to put him more at ease. He'll start there. Always check the library first.

[nascensibility]

Evelyn sleeps like the dead, which would be an appropriate metaphor if she wasn't currently, actually deceased.

A childhood of unreasonable comfort instilled a sort of security in being alone, in sleeping without fear, in being so vulnerable. As a girl she had the occasional night terror, nothing too serious, rote fears of dolls with their wide, gaping eye staring into the void, worried about crocodiles in spite of the fact that they only existed at the London Zoo. For a long time her world was small, and warm, and soft.

It feels much the same now in the library, but she does not see it as such. It is an expansive hypostyle hall, heavy lintels resting on acanthus capitals, ancient stories writ in the stone. It is the Egypt she loves and remembers - remembers in another life, but possessing a familiarity that sings to her sweet, and low. Eyes half-lidded, her fingertips trip over the spines of her books and touch only cool stone.

Hemingway. Shelley. Camus. Byron. Dumas.
A successful harvest, the fruits of the Nile plucked free in nets, thropping about on the shore.

Her unconscious feet take her to the bay window in her work area, through the west wing. There the moon drips in through the panes, stretching long shadows behind her and it is another night elsewhere, soft music in the distance.

Something like home.

how about the bar? c:

[thecourier]

It's late, or early, but either way the courier is in a state of sleepless unrest and is staring fixedly at the bottom of a glass of whiskey when the door quietly slides open.

At first, he doesn't glance around; doesn't think anything of it, really. It took a few moments for his sluggish mind to catch up and point out that that wasn't like him, and he really ought to check to make sure no one is holding a gun to the back of his head. So, he turns, and what he expects to see is definitely not a young woman in a nightgown.

"Can't sleep, either?" he asks, then frowns very slightly as he notes the fact that she... Well, she doesn't look exactly awake. "... Huh. Okay..."

It takes more effort than it should to get off the bar stool, but he walks to her and gently takes her by the arm while the curious cyberdog accompanying him shoves a cold, wet nose into one of her slack hands.

"C'mon, miss sleepwalker," he says, keeping a light grip close to her elbow. "Time to wake up."

this is a good first impression right

[nascensibility]

Can't sleep, can't see, can't form entirely coherent sentences...yes, this Narration would like to apologise to the newcomer for providing such a terrible hostess. Truly, while Evelyn tends to be an excellent advocate for rolling out Wonderland's unofficial welcome wagon, this is a poor first impression for a number of reasons.

Firstly: she is unconscious. This here means 'existing in an insentient state wherein she wanders aimlessly and without general purpose, most likely to her own detriment and the discomfort of others suffering from insomnia.'

Secondly: she is wearing precious little else but her nightgown, and being a woman from the mid-1930s her sleepwear is thin, ill-suited to staving off the inherent chill that comes with January's weather.

Thirdly: The Courier's primary instinct is to take hold of the woman drifting idly into the bar in a daze, and while his touch is gentle the cognitive dissonance between what is real and what is not comes like a swift punch to the gut, and Evelyn awakes from visions of alabaster and oil lamps with a violent start.

Unintelligible exclamations aside she flails for a moment before bumping into the bar counter, upsetting a glass and staring at him in abject shock.

"Wh-Who are you?!"