Mirage owns the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Mrs. Sakai and her story belong to me. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night!

Chapter Twelve: Santa Claus is Coming-- to-- Town!

They pulled up to the place. It was a small two-story building, rather old, crowded between larger, newer, more prosperous stores, yet its lights were on and looked more cheerful by comparison. Its windows were decorated for Christmas. No big shock, many stores in Chinatown put up the decorations as a way to attract outside customers. But for some reason, even Don could tell that these decorations just seemed-- well, more meaningful, as if the owner actually celebrated, rather than tried to draw in those who celebrated.

He killed the lights. No kids came out here looking for free candy, and it was just as well, since they had none. But Don was worried about the "other" kinds of kids-- the gangs. They'd be lucky to escape without the decorations being pulled off the "Battle Shell" by troublemakers, a thought that caused Donatello mixed emotions.

"I'll stay here," he said, scanning the neighborhood. "You go get what Splinter needs."

"Aww, jeeze, Donnie!" Mikey's trademark wheedling whine kicked in full force. "You know my Japanese isn't as good as yours, especially when it comes to reading it." And he shoved a list under his brother's nose. Don at once recognized the neat kanji of Splinter.

Don gave an exasperated, angry sigh, snatched the list from Mikey as well as the money he was holding out, and made a rather loud exit from the vehicle, slamming the door so hard that the thing actually rocked slightly.

Stomping up and roughly pulling open the door, he entered the well-lit store. The happy tinkling of the bell suspended over the entrance to announce customers did not do his black mood any good, and if it were not for the fact that he did not want to attract attention, he would have snatched it down and killed it in best Ninja-style.

It was a typical herbal medicine place, with crowded aisles and bins both open and closed; bundles and bunches of different scented things hung from above, and everywhere something was just within reach of the customer, all in its dried, unprepared, natural for the most part state.

There were rows and rows of boxed and bagged medicines as well, complete with instructions on dosage and what they were good for. This was a very inclusive shop it seemed. You could concoct your own combinations the old fashioned way, or you could buy the prepackaged, already prepared mixtures and save yourself the extra work.

The combined smells of licorice, raspberry leaf, garlic, rose, nutmeg-- countless scents that he could not describe or identify-- nearly overwhelmed the turtle, and it was all he could do to keep from bolting back out into the relatively fresh air outside.

As he stared around at the numerous choices, it occurred to his smart brain that even he would be here forever if he tried to search on his own. He made for the back where he saw the figure of a short, thin woman-- obviously the owner, as she was older than most assistants.

Adjusting his hat and muffler to keep himself hidden, he approached this lady, list in hand.

"Bonsowa-ru," he said, bowing. " I need some assistance in purchasing these medicines ."

He was trying to keep from making eye contact; keeping his eyes on the list, so as not to draw attention to any "green" that might be showing.

"Good evening, Hamato Donatello," came the reply in English. "I have been expecting you all night."

Don froze. His head, already rather overpowered by the olfactory assault it had been going through in this place, spun just a bit more out of control. His eyes felt glued to the list, his feet rooted to the floor. His heart was beating in a way that would under other circumstances make him think it was fear. Throat, mouth, tongue, lips were suddenly dry from shock, and his breathing was impeded by his disbelief.

With great effort, he forced himself to look this woman in the eyes.

She was silver-haired, short, and thin. Her face was youthful; despite her age, her skin was as clear and as smooth as April's. Her dark eyes twinkled in amusement at his shock, and she merely stood there, smiling at his reaction.

He made several attempts to speak, but his voice had locked up. He was sweating under the lights, weighed down with hat, coat, mittens and muffler.

"Yes," she nodded, helping him out, still smiling, and now he could see happy tears in her eyes. "I know who and what you are. I have kept the store open all night waiting for you to get here. Now I can close, and we can have a visit!"

The tinkling of the bell alerted him to more people. He knew without looking that it was the others. Who else would have reason to come in? This had been set up. Obviously.

Don, however, stood still, unable to move from the spot, while Mrs. Sakai-- for of course, it was she-- moved to lock the front door, and turn out the lights. Then, taking his arm in her small yet determined hand, she lead the four of them to the back of the store, up the stairs, and into her apartment.

"Please, remove your hats and coats," she bowed, making them welcome. "Please make yourselves comfortable! I will be right back!" And she scurried off to what they could see was the kitchen.

Don stood in the living room much as he had stood in the shop, unmoving, like a statue. Mikey, with an understanding sigh, began to relieve him of hat, muffler, and coat-- and Don finally came to life.

"No," he said, snatching the jacket back closed. For some reason he did not want to remove the coat. Mikey shrugged.

"You're gonna cook, bro. This room is well-heated."

"I'm fine, Mikey," he lied; he could already feel the oppressive heat of the jacket. He compromised and left it open, though he felt that if he clutched it tight, it would somehow protect him-- from what, he still wasn't sure, but for some reason he kept thinking he needed protection.

He forced himself to sit on the smaller couch, and finally looked around the room. The place was neat, ornate without being cluttered, small without being cramped. Many ornate yet tasteful decoratives filled special shelves and cases, attesting to her appreciation of beauty. Separated from this smaller couch by a coffee table was a larger couch, where the others were seated. A few straight back wooden chairs were scattered around, out of the way, but handy for more company. Underfoot was a beautiful yet simple rug of deep blue, thick and clean and reminding him of water for some reason.

Pictures of what he assumed were the grandchildren dominated one end of the room, and in the corner was a small family shrine, with a picture of Mr. Sakai. It had been decorated for the Christmas season, with a plate of gingerbread men, a bowl of fruit, and a small string of mini-lights edging the picture frame-- indeed, a nice-sized and beautifully decorated Christmas tree was placed next to it-- and this seemed odd to Donatello. It wasn't quite in what he'd been taught was the proper tradition.

"Let me help you, Mrs. Sakai," April suddenly said. She had looked towards the kitchen, and got up to take the enormous tray that the petite woman was now carrying into the room.

Despite her protests, April took the tray, and placed it on the coffee table as directed. Mrs. Sakai thanked her, then busied herself pouring out tea and serving tasty slices of pie.

"Pecan or pumpkin?" she asked Michelangelo, serving knife at the ready.

"Both, naturally! I remember them both as being equally delicious, so there is no way I can choose!" he laughed, and she, laughing as well, served him out a slice of each.

"Mikey!" Don protested, shocked at his brother's manners.

"No! I am so glad to have someone eat them again! My husband only ate them out of duty. My son always refused," she laughed, as Casey requested the same as Mikey, and April asked only for pecan. "My parents and I moved here when I was a little girl, and this lady who was our neighbor made these pies as a welcome gift. I was hesitant to try 'American food', but I had to be polite, so I ate a small piece of the pumpkin. It was the most amazing thing I had tasted! All smooth, and spicy, and sweet, and delicious! So, I gladly tried the second one, and it was just as good, only with the crunchy texture of the pecans and the sticky quality of the rest of the filling! I learned to bake these pies under the direction of the lady, and drove my family crazy every chance I got, making them."

Donatello still had not told her his preference. She stood, grinning, looking in expectation at him, as the others laughed at her story as well as at the turtle.

"Oh, sorry," he finally said, feeling himself turn red under the attention. "Pumpkin, please."

Quickly she handed him a nice piece of pie, and offered him some fresh whipped cream to top it with, but he refused politely.

"Anyway, that first Thanksgiving, when my husband and I decided to leave out something for dear Mr. Hamato and his family, naturally I had to make pies," she laughed, sitting down and talking as if Casey and April were completely aware of the story. "And they must have been successful, judging from the letter little Michelangelo left for me!" And she laughed at the memory. "I believe he thanked me three times and mentioned how delicious they were!"

"Yes, that sounds like 'little Michelangelo'," April laughed, and Mikey merely winked at her.

"Well, it was the polite thing to do," he defended in mock seriousness. "I surely didn't do it to get any more pies. Though it was nice of you to send us two more for Christmas," he added, bowing from his seated position to the lady in question.

Mrs. Sakai merely laughed in return, then turned her attention back to Donatello. She sat as if she were expecting something, yet for the life of him he couldn't-- or wouldn't-- figure it out.

"So, uh, Mrs. Sakai," Casey, feeling the pause in the conversation and April's elbow hint to do something in his ribs, "how long have you known the guys?"

She turned to Casey with a thoughtful frown.

"Well, my husband and I knew 'of' a Mr. Hamato and his four motherless sons for... let me see... I believe it was when they were the age of two. Or was it three? I just remember that one morning, we entered the shop to find a list of items that had been purchased, an envelope with the exact amount including tax, and a letter in Kanji apologizing for the dangerous circumstances that had required this father to break into our shop in order to provide for his four sons. I think he said they were two... but it could have been three... I know that a lot of what he bought was food for babies and toddlers. I distinctly remember the amount of mashed carrots he purchased."

Mikey made a face.

"I think I remember that part," he complained, as if he still had the taste of the nasty food on his tongue. "He kept trying to tell me that they were yummy to the tummy, but I knew better!"

Everyone laughed (except Don).

Mrs. Sakai then sighed, shaking her head.

"My memory is not as good about some things as others," she ruefully laughed. And she told Casey and April the story of the relationship that grew between the mysterious Mr. Hamato and his four sons ("quadruplets, and I was convinced at first that he was in hiding to prevent their mother from knowing where they were. After all, it had happened to several women of my acquaintance when divorce took place, and custody was awarded to them instead of the father"). Eventually she and her husband had come to the conclusion that the dear man was in hiding from the Yakuza, and they vowed to never try to wait up to catch a glimpse of this poor fellow who risked everything to feed his children!

She entertained even Michelangelo and Donatello with her stories, for they heard much that they had never realized had taken place, as well as things that brought back sharp, clear, memories. And all the time, she poured more tea, and handed out more pie, and everyone laughed at the stories-- including, finally, Donatello.

"I wish I could have seen you guys as little toddlers," April grinned wistfully. "I'll bet you were all so cute!"

"Naturally," Mikey nodded sagely. "Only, of course, I was the cutest of the four. Ask anyone." And he gladly accepted yet another double helping of pie from their hostess.

The room grew silent again, as Mrs. Sakai once more turned her attention to Don. He still seemed shy, uncertain-- almost afraid as it were. He finally looked her in the face, and saw understanding-- and amusement.

"When did you know 'about' us?" he finally asked. He'd been thinking over the past few years without realizing it, and a few things had finally made sense to him. "I know it was before I sent you the e-mail telling of why my father and I were reluctant to expose ourselves. I don't believe that you, personally, were surprised by my response."

Mrs. Sakai sighed deeply, and nodded.

"Yes," she admitted, as if getting ready to confess something shocking. Her whole attitude was one of a repentant person. She got up, approached the little shrine with her husband's photo, and for a few minutes she stood in silent communion. Then she returned to the couch and took her seat beside Don.

"We had always sworn that we would never violate the privacy-- and safety-- of Mr. Hamato," she said simply and slowly. "And we kept that oath. Or rather, my husband kept that oath."

She sighed, looking wistful.

"They say that widows whose husbands snored miss the sound that used to drive them crazy," she smiled, rather ashamed as well as with a touch of wickedness, "but that is the one thing I have never missed! His grumbling, his complaining, his picky ways-- these are the things I miss. But not his snoring. A few weeks after the New Year, we had already had an argument about something trifling, and unfortunately for me, he went to bed first. Normally, if I could get there and fall asleep before him, then I stood a good chance of not being awakened by that awful noise-- how such a little man could make such a loud noise is beyond me!"

April gave Casey a sideways glance; having heard him and Raph both once, when they'd fallen asleep at opposite ends of the couch during one of their movie nights, she could not imagine anything worse in comparison.

"Anyway, it was not long before he began to 'saw the logs' as they say, and I simply could not get any rest, so I arose. I threw a blanket around myself and went into the living room, but that terrible buzzing followed me everywhere. It was as if it were pursuing me! Bathroom, kitchen-- wherever I went, it followed!"

"Yeah, my brother Raphael snores like that," Mikey laughed cheerfully. "Even Sensei says it sounds like a bear with asthma is breathing into his ears while running a chain saw, and no matter where he tries to go to escape it, it is right there."

Mrs. Sakai laughed in return at this description.

"Well, bundled in my blanket and also covered with a bit of annoyance at my husband, I left the apartment and went down the stairs to the shop, just far enough so that I could not hear that awful noise. I sat on the steps, and told myself I would just sit here quietly for a few minutes, calm myself, then go up to bed and kick him until he stopped snoring."

Don, caught off guard by her words, laughed out loud for the first time since they'd been there-- indeed, for the first time in weeks, as Mikey knew all too well! Mikey grinned at this crack in Don's depression, and couldn't help but feel that things were going to get better very soon.

"I sat there for I do not know how long. It was taking me some time to calm down, I guess, so much time that I actually began to doze a bit-- and then I heard a whisper. 'Donatello, stay close to me-- I do not believe anyone is here, but the human scent is strong tonight'."

Don stared, thinking hard-- he sort of remembered going with Splinter sometime after Christmas-- yes, it had been because Mike was still grounded. He looked at Mrs. Sakai with great attention now.

"I thought, 'what strange dream is this?' I knew the name from the letter that both he and Mr. Hamato had left before Christmas. Why would I dream such a strange thing? I stayed as still as I could, straining my ears for any sound. Had our mysterious customers returned that night? Why would he say 'human scent'? It was all so confusing."

She paused, and sipped her tea. Mikey looked as if he wanted to prod her to continue, he was squirming so, but he held his tongue. She soon continued.

"As I sat there, I could hear movement in the shop. The steps offered only a partial view of the store, so unless I were to move or the visitors were to pass into that section, I would not be getting a glimpse of them. It crossed my mind to try to get back upstairs before I was discovered-- I did not want to violate Mr. Hamato's safety, not after all he had done for me and my husband. But unfortunately, curiosity took hold of me, and, as I was seated in a nice, dark shadow on that part of the stairs, I stayed put, confident that I would not be seen. After a few more minutes, the father seemed to relax a bit. 'Very well-- you may look, but stay within my sight. I feel uneasy. If we did not truly need these supplies, I would leave at once! Look quickly and quietly!'

"Look for what? What could he be wanting? Suddenly a small figure, short, bundled well in coat and hat, yet strangely round-- fat in a way-- came into view. Though there were few lights outside the shop, enough filtered in through the windows to illuminate that part of the store, and I was seeing one of the Hamato children. But why are they so fat? Well, not fat, but not the skinny little things I'd imagined. I could not see the face or features, but I did not worry about it. 'At least he is caring for them better than I expected, though perhaps a bit too much'."

Mikey snorted into his tea at the description of Don as "fat". Mikey had always been the smallest as a child, but Don had been the thinnest it seemed, and sometimes Splinter worried that he did not gain weight as quickly as the others.

"And then he pulled off his hat and muffler, stuffing them into his coat pocket. My first thought: that child has no hair! As he crossed into better-lit area, his features were more plain! And they were not human! I could not place them, but I knew, I just KNEW, that they were not human! No ears that I could see! No nose to break up the features! Just a broad face, more pronounced around the mouth area, large eyes-- such inquisitive eyes! Even in the dim light I could see the intelligence in them!"

Now Don blushed visibly, and ducked his head, avoiding making eye contact with the others. No one, to his relief, made any comment.

"I now could not move if you ordered me to. And not because I was afraid! I was a bit scared, true, but I was witnessing something so amazing I simply could not move! As the child grew warmer in his search, his coat was undone, and I could see better that his chest, though covered with a sweater, was rather flat, while his back appeared more curved-- yet he was not hunchbacked. The skin color was hard to determine, but I guessed it to be some sort of green. 'Kame' came into my mind, for some strange reason, though I've no idea why-- it was the closest thing I could think of to compare him to. And all the time I was examining him, he was examining the containers and boxes that were for sale in that section. Finally, once seemed to catch his eye. Carefully he examined it, opening and closing it, giving it quite a going over."

Don remembered. Solid metal, yet lightweight; probably something used for a sturdy lunch box or some other use except tools; easy opening latch, thick, black handle on the top, the color was a nice metallic silver. It rattled in a pleasing way, and the handle seemed to fit his hand perfectly!

"Then Mr. Hamato-- for who else could it have been-- came into view," she continued, snapping Don back to the present with her tale of the past. "Hat pulled low over his face, yet I could see that his features were also not human! Covered in a coat, taller than the son, thinner, too, yet something was not human about him! 'Donatello, we must hurry,' that whisper came again, and I froze as his gaze swept the store again. 'I feel very uneasy! My fur is prickling insistently.' He pulled off his hat for a moment, as if that would help him to search for any danger-- NEZUMI! I literally stuffed the blanket into my mouth to keep from calling out. Yet I could tell, this tall fellow, who spoke and walked and dressed as others, was nezumi! I could see the ears as they twitched this way and that, searching for any sounds; I could hear more than see the long snout as it sniffed for any possible danger. Nezumi! What will my husband say? A large, talking rat! Mr. Hamato was a large talking rat!"

Suddenly she laughed-- long and loud and cheerfully, as if remembering a good joke. The others looked at her, puzzled.

"Forgive me," she gasped, tears in her eyes, "forgive me, but I have only just now remembered what it was that you got him for his Christmas present! Tell me, did he use it once, just to make his sons happy?"

Mikey laughed as Casey and April looked on, dying to know.

"I thought Splinter would love an electric shaver," he explained, and for another few minutes the story was interrupted, this time by various visual imagery of the Rat shaving.

Then Mrs. Sakai went on:

" 'Father,' came a whispered voice to my ears, cutting into my shock. 'Father, may I please buy this box for my tools? I think that it is of good quality, and worth the price.'

"Mr. Hamato, momentarily distracted from his watch for danger, gave his attention to this one asking the question, and examined the object in question.

" 'Yes, Donatello-- I believe that you are correct. I will add some money to it so you will have enough.'

" 'Oh,' the voice sounded a bit disappointed. 'Never mind, then... I thought I had enough. I don't want to take any of the supply money for this. I'll wait until next time.' And nothing his father said would persuade him to buy that box! Mr. Hamato finally gave up, put his own hat back on, bundled his little son back up, and they were gone in a flash."

She sighed, shaking her head at the memory.

"I sat on the stairs for many minutes, to afraid to move in case they had not made good their escape. After I had determined that it was completely quiet, I went down and looked. Sure enough, there on the counter was the familiar envelope with the letter and money. Then I looked at the box that Donatello had wanted. I don't remember the price-- not more than twenty dollars. I'm guessing that you had forgotten about sales tax?"

Addressed like this, Don, who had been lost in the story as well as his memory, started.

"Uh, yeah... I mean, yes. Yes, I believe I did," he replied, rather embarrassed. He had always prided himself on knowing money better than his brothers, but the joy of finding the perfect tool box had temporarily blinded him to the harsh realities of the world of commerce. And there was no way he would take even a dime of Father's precious supply money for something selfish.

"I was going to save it for you," she sighed, thinking back to that night. "It was the last one. We'd only had a few, and they had taken a long time to sell. I thought 'I will save this for Donatello'. But I left it on the shelf for the time being. My husband was very aware of our inventory, and if I were to remove it, he would not believe any story I told. Unfortunately, three days later, when I had a good excuse to get it, it was gone! He had sold it for half price to someone else! He could not understand why I was upset with him that day." And she laughed in memory of the scolding she'd indulged in that day and the confusion of her husband at receiving the full brunt of it.

"So, when you sent your e-mail, I knew, but I never told my husband. And he never told me of his visit with Mr. Hamato, except to say that it was the most amazing experience of his life, and he was glad that he had lived to meet such a being," she finished.

Don sat there, taking it all in. She had known. All this time, she had known. The others chatted with her of this and that; questions and answers and other stories of how their paths had crossed and how their friendships had formed swirled around him, but he was too busy thinking of this story and that Christmas so long ago.

"Well, Don," Mikey said, catching his attention. "We'd better get going. We've been parked out there longer than I anticipated. Don't want a parking ticket, do we?"

She had known. All this time. And never told, not even her husband.

Or Splinter.

Had he known that night? His senses were so acute; nothing got by him! All four of them knew that from personal experience. Had he known that she was on the stairs, and had posed no threat? Or had his son taken up his attention that night?

"Well, Donatello?" Mrs. Sakai said, as they got up to leave. "And are you feeling better?"

"Feeling better?"

"Yes," she said sternly, not to be avoided. "Has this visit lifted you out of the depression? Have you regained your Christmas Spirit? Are you feeling better?"

Once again he felt that he needed protection. He clutched his jacket to himself. He looked to Mikey for explanation or help or anything. Mikey faced him calmly and seriously.

"Dude, you have not been yourself for months," he said. "It's been bad enough the way Leo has been acting. But the stress of everything, combined with that, was tearing you up. Even Raph noticed that you haven't been your normal self. And the closer it got to Christmas, the more we could see the depression. It's sort of been coming on for a few years-- at least, that's what I think."

He glanced at the others, then tuned them out.

"Look, when we were six, you did the greatest thing for me that anyone ever did-- you helped me have a real Christmas! You made my Christmas wishes come true, every single one of them. Even when it looked like I'd ruined everything, you kept me going, pushing me to keep dreaming. I swore then that someday I would find you the best present in the entire world to pay you back for what you did that Christmas. But nothing ever seemed good enough."

He sighed sadly, thinking over the past year.

"Then, when everyone could finally see what I'd started seeing earlier; that you were depressed each year at this time; well, I just knew that I had to find a way to bring you out of it. And if I could do that, then I would be paying you back the best way I knew how. But I couldn't think of anything. I thought getting you involved in what we've done for the past few years would do the trick, and it seemed to work. But this year I could tell you just didn't buy into it anymore."

He stepped closer to his silent brother, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Then, Splinter told me that perhaps finding Mrs. Sakai might help cheer you up. He had a feeling that you regretted losing touch with her; some sorta 'Splinter hunch', you know? Nothing gets by him. April helped me track her down-- took a bit of work, what with the number of Mrs. Sakais in the City, plus we had no way of knowing if she was still in the country. Finally we found her. Casey, April and me came to meet her, and believe me, it blew me away that she didn't seemed too surprised at my appearance."

He turned a smile on Mrs. Sakai.

"Now I know why you said what you did-- 'Kame! So I was right after all'!"

"So, Donatello," Mrs. Sakai said, once again looking him in the eyes. "Are you feeling better?"

Instead of answering, he carefully put his arms around her and hugged her, desperately wanting to squeeze her tight, but afraid of hurting her. She, however, squeezed quite hard. No one said anything for several minutes.

"Can you come to our place for Christmas?" he asked, voice hoarse. She smiled up at him, ran a hand across one wet cheek.

"No. My son and his family will be here in a few days to celebrate the season. But now that you know where I live, I trust that you will visit me once in a while!"

Don nodded, smiled, and hugged her again. Then final goodbyes were said, her best wishes were sent to "Dear Mr. Hamato" and before Don realized it, they were in the still decorated "Battle Shell" headed home.

All the way home, Don was silent-- happy but silent. It was a good thing that Casey was driving; his mind would not have been on the road, and they would have probably ended up in a bad accident.

They stopped long enough for Casey and April to go home, then Mikey finished the short drive to the abandoned garage. The lateness of the hour was helpful in keeping prying eyes from spotting the fantastically tricked out truck as Mikey pulled into the garage.

"Don," Mikey finally broke the silence. "Don, are you okay?"

Don nodded, climbing out of the "Battle Shell" and heading for the elevator.

Mikey shook his head; he had thought that this would have been just what his brother needed. He had seemed better; yet this continued silence... perhaps he and Splinter had been wrong?

On the ride down, Mikey, who lived for conversation, couldn't take the silence any longer.

"Don, I'm sorry."

Startled.

"For what?"

"Well, um--" The doors opened at that moment, and Donatello, without waiting for the rest of Mikey's reason, gave his brother a quick, powerful hug.

"Mikey, that was the best thing anyone has ever done for me! Thank-you!"

Then, releasing his pleased brother, he made a beeline for Splinter's room.

He didn't knock; he just entered, spying the Rat sitting near his desk where he did his calligraphy and other writing. Without any words he crossed the room swiftly, nearly flopped to his knees, grabbed his father in a hug and tried to bury his face into his chest, as he had used to do when a child. If he could have, he would have crawled into his lap.

Splinter, startled for the moment, was quick to recover. With great difficulty due to his son's size and the bulky coat he still wore, Splinter managed to get his arms more or less around his son, to "cradle" him as he had used to do when they were children, and to rock him as if he had crawled into his lap while Splinter was sitting in the old rocking chair.

"Thank you," was all he could say after getting his voice back under control; he'd been crying without realizing it for quite some time. When he had first tried to address Splinter, his voice had just made a sort of sobbing sound, startling its happy owner. But now Donatello had control of it again. "Thank you, Father. Thank-you."

"You are welcome, my son," came the soothing reply. "You are most welcome, Donatello. Merry Christmas."