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You stumbled your way to the train car, disgust revolutionizing your guts in ways rivaling that one time you decided to mix both vodka and oysters together.
The interior was as dirty as the rest of the facility. The plush, circus-themed wall padding providing little comfort for the undoubtedly laborious journey ahead.
Where were you going, anyway? Why were you putting up with all of this? You should have turned around hours ago, left the murderous, children-stuffed toys to their devices.
All of this hassle, running around a maze of corruption, only in search of a body that has probably rotten away and joined the rubble long time ago. You could’ve been at home, warm cup of tea in hand, relaxing on your couch! But no, you just had to go and check. To see if that asshole died in some convenient, easy to access hallway, perfectly in place to hurl insults at.
They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but whoever said that clearly hadn’t considered that the dead person in question was an egotistical, maniacal, infuriatingly hot, shithead.
The engine rumbled, the train staring to lumber its way to what will probably be a room with more puzzles and things out to get you.
At first, you told yourself it was for the kids. They deserved to know what happened to their father, even though honestly, he had never been much of a parental figure to them to begin with. Such a noble reason, to throw your common sense away for. But… that was a lie, wasn’t it?
You came here, broke into a seemingly abandoned facility, suffered at least several fractured bones, run for your life far too many times, for the truth.
To find out what was so important down here to take all his focus away, to leave you for. To see his body laid to rest among his life’s work.
To have someone tangible to blame.
Oh, and there was a lot of things to blame him for, as you have found out recently. Anyone who partook in the making of these… things. These machines with no purpose. They had to be demented. They had to be insane, evil, inhuman. Positively disturbed.
So you ventured deeper, and you won’t stop until you find Sawyer’s stupid corpse, bring him back somehow, and kill him again. Or something like that— you haven’t really had the time to hammer out the details.
Your peaceful joyride is interrupted by the annoying hiss of static feedback.
The TV mounted in the corner of the train car you didn’t notice before crackles to life.
These strange occurrences didn’t even bring you dread, anymore. It was the same game of cat and mouse, and then some other contrived plot of Playtime Co. that ruins your day further is relieved, and then the thing that decided to go after you dies a horrible death. By your hands. Maybe this was your newfound confidence talking, but you got the hang of this whole shebang by now.
The TV humms sultry. “Now, what’s this?” Said the new villain of the week.
You stare impassively at the screen, a single eyeball staring back. Unimpressive, is your first thought, Suspicious, is the second.
“Do I feel something squirming its way beneath my skin?” The voice continues.
This was… particular. There was this thought nagging at you. Like an itch on your back you had no way of reaching. That something in this heavily modified voice was… familiar.
“An invasive, foreign little germ... after all this time?”
Perhaps it was an employee you encountered that one time you visited you (ex)husband at work. Sometimes random people’s voices stayed in your head, right?
“Ah, but I see... you.” The train felt unsteady under your feet, but you paid it no mind. “Well, little germ, let's make a game of you...”
No, no you knew this intimate tone, not unlike it was sharing a secret. Sounding so far above you, so convinced of their superiority. But that was ridiculous. It was— well… not so far removed, considering all the shit you’ve seen down here.
“You've blundered along the shadows above,” he monologued further, “and only managed to squirm all the way down here but by the barest skin of your teeth.”
But, how? Why now of all times? What in the hell could have possibly went down to turn you late husband into a TV in some train car? And— hey, speaking of trains, wasn’t this one getting a lot more faster?
“There are no shadows here that would be of use to you.”
You needed to— well not say something, that was quite impossible, but to communicate to the culprit of the speeding train to ‘hey, so actually, stop that, maybe, please and thank you.’ You tried to sign exactly that, but the big ass plastic hands that were always in your way made your movements look more like your hands were flailing about, instead of forming sentences.
It must have brought some success though, for the supposed “late husband” of yours paused his ramblings. The changing eye images slowed down, as if in thought.
“Ah, do not try to stop our game so soon, little germ.” he muttered, sounding displeased at being interrupted from his previous spiel.
Okay, new plan: you attempted to channel the most fury you had in store to a clear spelling of letters, in quick succession coming together to form his name: ‘Harley.’ You even shook your head, like you were reprimanding a dog for misbehaving.
The image on the screen was now stuck in a wide eyed stare. “I, you, do not presume to get familiar with me, you—”
Feeling the track screech in warning of impeding collision, you reach in a desperate bid for the easiest way for him to recognize you (why haven’t you done this sooner?) and you take off the mask that has been enveloping the lower part of your face for this whole journey (The idea, at first, was to hide from any active cameras, but then after falling practically to the Earth’s core, it became a good protection from the offending dust particles and mold spores).
The static spluttered, the screen becoming more visual snow than image.
And the last thing you heard before hitting your head on the cold ground was a drawn out oh.
—
Your walk through the abandoned facility was largely uninterrupted. Well, safe from the odd critter or so, those little guys had a taste for blood. But again, the lack of any serious threat was… concerning.
With all the talk about a game, one would expect a challenge or two. At least, a new threat to deal with or something. But the building stayed empty, and the speakers silent. Maybe Sawyer was confined to that little train car, after all?
A shame, you feel as though the two of you would have benefited from a long talk. Or his face would have benefited from a nice, clean meeting with your fist. Did he even have a face anymore? If he did, he will learn to wish otherwise.
You made your way further down the meandering hallways, honestly more lost than anything. That little toy, she told you you had to meet someone— Goey? …Bowly? —but you have seen neither hide nor hair of this “ally” yet.
At least, you appreciated privately, the puzzles forced upon you had a little more flare than the “Connect Hand Wire Through Pole” ones.
But no peace could last forever, and so with a convenient slip you fall about two floors down, right in front of another creature. Some sort of dinosaur, you might have seen a cardboard cut-out of it some time ago, but those stopped being appealing right about when the recordings in them started screaming at you.
No matter— you were long overdue for some action. You lift yourself up, to the best of your ability, adrenaline kicking in. You hype yourself up long enough to practically taste the disappointment when arms reaching from the darkness grab a hold of the creature and jostle it around like a hamster in a sock.
Creature nr. 2, a fat, playdough looking guy, offered little encouragement upon speaking. He sounded way too happy for your liking, and even grabbed you by your head to lift you to your feet. Doey, because that was the creature’s name, seemed to be the one that little toy sent you to find. You offer yourself a mental pat on the back for completing the task successfully.
With no other choice but to follow (you do not want to find out what being ripped apart by playdough of all things would feel like), you stalk through more rooms that OSHA would tremble at the mere sight of. Really, who let this whole place fall apart this much? Did the toys have conflicts resulting in copious amounts of property damage? You feel as if this question would have been answered if you spared a second to listen to any of the creatures talk at any point, but you weren’t here to listen to their sob stories in the fist place. Why bother?
The things that come next could be only described as annoying. Having to fasten you steps to catch up to playdough man, having to… walk on him over extensive cave ruptures. Oh, and the puzzles. Curveballs that were specifically thrown at you, because of Doey’s incompetence. And better yet, the inexplicably bright, blinding gears? Torture.
You even nearly run into that Prototype thing. You had virtually no idea what that thing’s deal was, but you ventured to guess that it most definitely wasn’t a nice, relaxing talk. Better to steer away from things that have it out for you!
You make your way into what the toys call “Safe Haven”, which was as creative as the name of any of the “people” here.
You did not care for rest, however. You had to keep moving. Now that you knew Sawyer somehow lived on, somewhere in this facility, your only goal was to find him. Or it would have been, if the toys haven’t made it their life’s goal to use you as they see fit. That red haired one especially.
You have tried many times to communicate, but it would seem ASL was never part of their curriculum. And so you run around, doing the things they ask you to, in hopes of finding a dead body. Well, not a dead body, anymore. You have half a mind to hope Sawyer didn’t get turned into one of these creatures as well. Or, that he did? You were still deciding if your anger justified wishing that fate on anyone.
The general gist of the talk you have been subjected to was this: you need to blow something up. You find yourself at odds with this, seeing as it would interfere with the whole “looking for someone” business. What was the point of making your task even more harder than it already was?
As per further instruction, you make your way to Doey. Luckily for you, he had far more interesting news for you than indulging your pyromaniac tendencies.
"I heard what you did above— what you survived. If it's all true, then we need your help.“ He began. It was true, you have done quite the impossible. This might be the first time anyone has acknowledged it, which was sad, all things considered. No one mentioned your impromptu face reveal either! The nerve of some people, honestly.
”The voice out there— the one in the prison… “ That piqued your attention. ”They called him "The Doctor"; Doctor Harley Sawyer. “ You hear a party popper go off somewhere in the back of your head. It is as much in celebration as it is a sign of the incoming migraine.
Most of what Doey said from that point on flew over your head. You were mostly reeling from the fact that Sawyer had apparently been a well established part of the Playtime post-crash-and-burn ecosystem, and yet no one deigned to mention him a single time until this point. It would have made this a whole lot easier!
You entertain a fantasy, briefly, where instead of jumping the fence and sneaking your way to the bottom of hell, you stay home, safe and sound, and move on with your goddamned life.
You sense an Critical Piece Of Information incoming, so you zone back into the one-sided conversation. "I need you to stop the Doctor— to take his Omni-Hand.“ Said Doey, having moved to a knelling position at some point. You promptly ignore him again.
Another hand? It’s noting you haven’t done before. A perfect excuse as well, for getting to him. You decide to move up Doey on your “people I’m least likely to kill” tier list. An important list to keep track of, knowing your track record (That gangly pink one rests on the top, and Sawyer was so far down he was dragging everyone else with him).
You felt excitement bubble in your stomach, anticipation seeping into your sorry excuse of functioning bones. After all this time, finally, you will be rewarded. With the way Sawyer has taken to avoiding you after your train-crash of a reunion (ha!), you can’t wait to give him a piece of your mind.
Spidey-sense tingling, you, again, zone back in to the poor “man” poring his heart out to (at) you. “Head for the Infirmary whenever you're ready to leave. There's sewer access inside.” Why must all the routes here be grimy and disgusting? Doey, oblivious as ever to your insightful commentary, continues anyway. “That's your safest path to the No Man's Land… And to him.”
Ah, a destination. Now, with that you can work with.
The door slid open at some point, and you decide not to burn any more daylight. You have waited long enough.
—
The worst thing about discovering hiding spots, was that there was no threat to hide away from. Not one that you could see, anyway.
The huge expense of cave that housed the new and improved electrical wire puzzle was strangely empty. Which was largely for your benefit— you were better of solving brain-ticklers while not under duress. But it was very irregular.
Compared to the last few hours, this was practically a walk in the park.
And that is to say, of course, that many parts of all these new puzzles seemed to be… inactive. Areas clearly meant for something bigger, left untended. Later, threats of piping cold tubes— turned off. Doors left open, catwalks not one bolt away from collapsing under you, everything was strange.
Almost like a certain someone was going out of their way to make your journey easier. You would be flattered, if you weren’t so pissed off.
If you were to pick a few highlights on your little vacation get-away, the part where you had to jump over an unusually hot pit was kind of fun. Or! Or when that one conveyor belt that nearly slid you into an industrial crusher. Or, In the “Hospital” part, with those locked up organs, floating encased in suspicious liquid. The ones you decidedly steered away from, because, ew, and all that.
Having any way available to you wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows though. With the amount of backtracking you had to commit your time to, solving actual puzzles would have been preferable. Though that’s how you stumbled your way into the correct path, in the end. A left turn here, a right there, a spin in place to confuse not only yourself, but your sense of direction as well. A jump off a railing that was intentional and not an accident, in which you miscalculated the amount of time to grapple to a hook. You were just that good.
Another set of cages greeted you. Ones that seemed even more cruel than the ones in the “Prison”. But, again, with no threat in sight either! The puzzle was even half-way done. You were beginning to feel Stockholm syndrome creep its way past your defenses. You missed the puzzles.
After finishing the “”puzzle“”, you stepped into a room (and the very fact it was locked in the first place almost brought you to your knees) and were welcomed by a critter in a glass tube. You stopped feeling sympathy for these creatures about the fifth time they jumped at you from around a corner, but the little guy looked just so utterly pathetic. It made your heart twist with long forgotten Emotion, so to get rid of the invasive feeling, you grabbed the oversized electrical socket which laid coincidentally on the floor, and absolutely demolished the glass tube. Using the blue plastic hand, obviously. They were powerful.
The small creature swam out of its encasement with little grace, then flopped around uselessly on the floor for about one minute and twenty three seconds. You even managed to catch a muffled “stupid meany” and “fucking bitch” in between its ragged breaths (why did they even breathe? It’s not like they needed to. Hopefully). How very cute.
Being quite done with its display you searched for a way out of the tiny room. There was a conspicuous hole in the roof. Why wouldn’t there be? You shot a hand at it and began the ascend to what was hopefully the same way the door would have led to. You even waved goodbye at the critter on your way out.
The next was an uneventful elevator ride. And really, how much time had you actually spent not progressing, but simply existing in these transitionary spaces today? In between running for your life, elevators, walkways and hallways, they all plagued your life so insistently. It must have been some plot left behind by all the Playtime figureheads, to fuck with anyone who dared cross the facility borders. It was like they were padding for time or something.
Then— the elevator came to a halt, and before you emerged a hallway. It felt like the last stretch. You developed a sort of sixth sense for this sort of thing. You could practically smell the aroma of his “holier than thou” attitude coming from the other side. You took the time to crack your knuckles, and offhandedly criticize his decor choices, as you walked down the hallway. A whole wall of TVs? Two whole walls? Sawyer really let himself go.
The doors pushed open by themselves.
And you had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.
Maybe you did take a wrong turn somewhere? What in the fresh baked muffins was this?
Sprawling television screens plastered across any and every available surface. Dirty floor, and generally bad “final boss” vibes radiating from the center of the room. A party of only two of the primary colours penetrating the darkness, illuminating—
Something?
A machine… of some sort? And— you squinted your eyes, here —was that a brain floating inside that thing?
But your excellent internal compass hadn’t failed you before, and if this was the place you were supposed to end up in, then…
Bejesus…
Your husband turned into a glorified mixer.
“Ahh…” breathed Sawyer, sounding both far away and too close at the same time, “It would seem my indigent attempts at appeasing you brought little harvest.”
You were still a little too caught up with the whole “man turned machine” thing to respond. It wasn’t even a lovable kid’s toy! No real continuity in this place, shame on them.
“Oh, and I dared to have such plans for you, darling. All discarded because of our little… mishap.” He said with what sounded a lot like disappointment.
Plans? You think back to the deserted rooms you had to waddle your way through to get here. So he was responsible for that mess. And— wait, mishap? This was hardly a mishap. Your mere presence should have been a category five religious awaking, not an inconvenience.
Anger invaded the forefront of your mind again, and with burning determination you began to trek closer to the towering machine.
Seemingly undeterred by your spectacle, Sawyer continued: “While we are on the topic, I must apologize for my lack of perceptiveness.” He didn’t quite manage to come across as apologetic. “The way you handled all those subjects… It could have only been you,” after a moment, he added sweetly: “honey.”
Stopping a few paces away from the machine, you took a moment to glare at it. Sawyer’s sheer audacity still surprised you to this day. While glaring prettily, you also came to the conclusion that in terms of size, and more importantly, power, you had zero to none chance at taking your husband in a fight in his current state.
And if you couldn’t really beat the daylights out of a chunk of metal, you had to settle for your next best bet; Bringing your husband down a peg or two. Or ten.
‘Fancy place you got here.’ You sign simply, like you were discussing the weather. ‘The cobwebs are a nice touch.’
He huffed in amusement, and you imagined he would be lifting one of his eyebrows, if he had them. “I take it you decided to lower yourself to insults, now?”
Not deigning that with a response, you look around the place, as if overtaken by the wondrous need to commit this room to your memory. You spy something move near the now closed door, but its gone before you can make out what it was.
‘I was worried sick, you know.’ While the words could be read as genuine, the look on your face was anything but.
You turned to… him? To what you assumed was his main form. ‘You couldn’t even spare a single phone call?’
The screens behind him started flickering to life, various eyes, and images of the facility flashing inconsistently. You felt as though it was a display meant to unsettle you, but unfortunately for Sawyer, it came of more as a “dick-measuring contest” than “intimidation tactic” to be so.
“Darling,” Sawyer drawled, “I hardly had phone service at my disposal down here.”
‘You and your excuses…’ You sigh dreamily, like his insistence on winning every human interaction he partook in was a phenomenal turn on.
Before he could get another word out, you quickly move to sign again: ‘Of course, you had such and important job to do here.’ The distinct sound of scraping metal echoed somewhere on your right, but you refused to bring your eyes away from him yet. ‘With all the… oddities running about, you must’ve been busy.’
Any play at civility evaporated from his demeanor (even though he can’t quite articulate anything in this form, it still comes across. Somehow.), steam burting from hidden pipes between the screens. The whole place became darker, like Sawyer dictated the light department with his temperament.
“I think you will find I place much value in my work,” he muttered testily, “and I do not take kindly to any insinuations.”
‘And yet,’ you continue, ‘I still have no point of reference for what all of this was even for.’
While that might have been in part that you haven’t been exactly looking for answers, the point still stood. Why bring all that tragedy on people otherwise uninvolved?
‘Stuffing children into toys, Harley?’ You asked innocently, because even though you have taken to ignoring that detail for much of your stay here, allowing him to sweep that fact under the rug was only improper.
“No progress comes without sacrifices.” He replied.
And— wow, okay. The delusions ran deep. You might have to think of a different approach.
In the time you fail to give out a come-back immediately, Sawyer decided to add his food for thought to your little exchange: “It does not escape my notice, however,” the smug bastard purred, “That you yourself seem to care little for these ‘poor’ experiments.”
The shifting metal was closer, now. You felt its presence, almost breathing down on the back of your neck.
“Where is this altruism coming from, dear?”
You forego a response in favor of seizing the GrabPack again. With the finesse of a person who tricked death many times by now, you spun around to face the newly presented threat. You switched to the orange hand, and fired a flare at the thing that decided to bother you (admittedly, the flares rarely did anything, but it was the comfort of fire that draws you to use it the most).
Miraculously, the flare did do something. The thing’s— that is, the human-adjacent robot’s cloak caught fire, like it was made out of silk, or the like. Sawyer let out a yelp, like the misfortune of the robot quickly turning to a torch was related to him.
The robot, having apparently decided it had enough of burning alive, ripped the cloak off its body with much aggression. It even stomped on it when it hit the ground. Repeatedly. It didn’t even put out the fire.
“Now, was that really necessary?” Piped up Sawyer. And oh— oh he didn’t sound like he was all around you anymore. The voice now came from the robot. Did that… mean you had been staring at a random piece of machinery this whole time?
Not so keen on letting go of the plastic hands just yet, you tilted your head in question, trying to convey that whatever just happened warranted an explanation.
Always happy to chit-chat, Sawyer wasted no time answering. “Ah, yes.” The robot-Sawyer swept invisible dust from his shoulder. “They never did confine me to just one body, as you can see.”
So, at the very least you didn’t come of as crazy while speaking to the Brain-Containment-Unit. Small mercies.
You eyed the robot before you, and while it was definitely taller than you, it was mostly skin and bones. Without the— you know. Metaphorically speaking. And that, well, you could, in theory, take it. In a fight.
Seemingly well versed in sensing violent(?) intent from you, Sawyer stopped picking through his plating (how was he concerned with his appearance even now?) and raised his hands in mock surrender. “I only meant to speak with you more… eye to eye, sweetie.” He even laughed at his own joke.
What was with all the eyes, anyway? Did two simply not fit on a screen? And, looking closer at said screen, was that purple as the backdrop? How he has escaped ego death will forever remain a mystery.
Deeming the robot as not an immediate threat, you let your hands do the talking for you again. ‘It isn’t altruism.’ You continue your previous conversation like nothing had happened. ‘But my simple belief that whatever has been going on here was just plain stupid.’
He didn’t react beyond a shimmer of static on that little TV head of his.
‘I mean, really, Harley? Were you so passionate about your “important project” you decided to turn yourself into one of them as well?’ And if that was a little too bitter sounding, well, you were still kind of mad about being left without any prior notice.
He, never one to stay in place for long, began to circle around you in slow, measured steps.
His little eye imagine stayed in a half-lidded stare, like the conversation bored him terribly. His arms, now resting behind his back, clinked and clanked with each step he took.
You felt as though you have miss-stepped, somehow. Silence was never a good sign from him. He was perfectly engaged with any debate, usually, even if it involved tearing down at his ideals and beliefs. It would seem his impromptu makeover was quite the touchy subject.
Taking a moment to remind yourself that the machine sharing your husband’s name wasn’t necessarily Harley Sawyer in ways that mattered, you kept your gaze focused on the prowling figure.
“When life takes something away from you,” he said finally, apropos of nothing, “only then you realize it was of little consequence to you to begin with.” His tone low, like a smile was curling in the corner of his nonexistent mouth. “I was thankful for the opportunity to open my eyes to such a truth.”
He stopped, having done a full circle around you. Standing just in between you and the only exit .
“But…” You imagined his smile would have stretched fully by now. “The same can not be said about you, right, darling?”
You have a slight inkling that he might have forgotten your name, with the way he was abusing all the pet names.
Yes, yes, someone could go ahead and sue you already— for you dared to not let go of pettiness even after all this time, truly an acute observation. How childish of you, to allow yourself to care about what happened to you not-so-dead husband.
Well, it was only fair he finally decided to fire back a jibe of his own. You criticized his interior design choices earlier, after all. An abhorrent offense.
In that case— you just had to respond in kind.
‘Did you have fun, staying locked up in your little basement?’ You sign lazily. ‘Can’t imagine there is a whole lot of entertainment to speak of, here.“
“Please, you have acquainted yourself with the local entertainment already.” He moved closer. “Disposed of them, too.”
‘At least I didn’t enjoy it.’ You replied. ‘As opposed to some.“
“Clinging to the moral high ground doesn’t suit you as well as you think it does.” Closer.
‘You know, nobody even knows you’re alive down here.’
“And do they know of you?” Even closer.
‘Your name has been nothing but a hindrance for me, even after death.’
“And yet I haven’t thought about you even once” Almost there.
You smile charmingly, pent up energy thrumming through your veins.
‘You know what I missed the most?’ You asked distractedly.
He let out a slight hum, standing just within arms reach. He loomed over you, and you had to crane your neck to keep looking at his “face”. Just in time— since while he was busy hovering over you, you sneaked your hand over the GrabPack controls.
With one swift movement, you smacked the blue hand over his TV screen. Even though the blow couldn’t have been that strong, Sawyer recoiled violently. His hands flew to cover his “face”, and a hiss escaped him.
It brought you brief satisfaction (you have been itching to do this for a Long Time), enough to let out a quiet snicker.
But no good thing could last forever.
Sawyer, done with his overreacting, lifted his “head” slowly. There was a sizable crack smack dab in the middle of his wide, opened eye.
“I forgot how bold you could be…” He trailed of with a hoarse laugh.
That was probably your cue to run. However, from the data you have gathered until now (the empty rooms, the lack of threats, the fact that you were talking and not actively trying to hunt each other for sport), you make the executive decision to stay where you were.
His fingers— no, no, wait, those were claws. His claws twitched, like he was trying very hard to keep from using them, for example, to skewer you with.
But he didn’t move.
Curious. Very curious.
‘So.’ You began, once you were sure he was paying full attention. ‘I don’t suppose you could direct me to the fastest way to kill you, no?’ You made a show of looking at your nails (and boy— were they dirty. Grime and blood squeezed in under them, and about half of them were chipped).
“Oh,” he breathed “I am afraid you have missed your chance, darling.”
You squinted suspiciously, prompting him to elaborate. “What remains of me is scattered across the whole facility. I could hardly allow you to fetch it, now.”
You think back to the organs left unattended, beyond the closed doors.
‘Allow me?’
“Do not delude yourself that you truly have any say in this situation.”
Because nothing said “power” quite like allowing your “victim” to do whatever they pleased, regardless of your wishes. You didn’t say any of that, of course. Sawyer could keep his game of pretend, to hold unto what little dignity he had left. For now.
‘It would seem we have arrived at quite the impasse, then.’
You maneuver your hands (the real ones) over the hold of you other hands (the plastic ones), settling on solving this “issue” the best way you knew how— violence.
Or, maybe…
The glass flaked off Sawyer’s screen in small crystals. If, presumably, he could still feel pain in this from… Well, there were always alternatives of how to hurt someone. More fun alternatives.
You reevaluated your life choices for a second, and with not as much as a shrug, concluded that you might as well. If the stars aligned, maybe.
Seeing that you no longer yearned for conversation, Sawyer “assumed the position”. Position to fight, of course. Hunched shoulders, legs bending, like he was about to straight up pounce on you. Laser focused on your face, probably calculating when you’ll elect to move.
Sweet adrenaline sent shivers running down your spine, and with a last goodbye kiss to your sanity—
You lunged.