A/N: Happy New Year, all.

I would jump into this without a preamble, but after leaving this story dangling for so long, I owe you all—readers, reviewers, story alerters, and PMers—an explanation. Prepare for a massive author's note. The next paragraph can be skipped without loss of any relevant information, should you—understandably—not want to hear about A Year in the Life of DrMcDuck.

The short version: The past 12 months have been bad ones at work.

The long version: January-March of last year was spent dealing with a massive computer crash. April-May was spent capitalizing on the fixed computer and frantically making up for months of downtime so as to make the end of the project cycle on schedule. June brought a set of unanticipated announcements, among them being: a change to a rolling project schedule instead of cycles (cough no vacation days until Christmas cough), the new project starting up ASAP, and that certain progress had to be made by the end of the year or else we'd all be jobless. June-December was consequently spent making sure I didn't get fired.

Writing 3-5k words a day for work removed my inclination to write more after hours. I write fanfiction for fun, and when doing so feels like work, that's a problem. I refused to continue writing until I could figure out how to reconcile the need to finish this story with the unfortunate constraints of real life. My initial outline called for writing three more chapters—not tenable, under present circumstances.

What I decided to do was spend as much time as I could over one weekend writing one last chapter as if it was a one-shot story. This single chapter would include as many key scenes from the planned three chapters, but would trade off detail and nuance for plot progression and completion. The result of this weekend of writing, questionable as it may be, is below.

With that, recall that this story takes place through "Chuck vs. the Fat Lady" (2.07). Typos may be more frequent than normal, as I wanted to get this posted before I went to work. I apologize for them, and will read the chapter over a few more times later when I get home. Italicized sentences, or several italicized words in a row, tend to denote a character's thoughts. Finally, I still don't own Chuck. This A/N would be 300 words lighter if I did.

-.-.-.-

Day 16: Saturday

A black Porsche sliding effortlessly into a vacant curbside metered parking spot wasn't at all unusual for this part of San Francisco.

Upon her emergence, neither was the driver of said Porsche: a blonde-haired woman, smartly dressed in casual attire, sunglasses in place and armed with a steaming Starbucks.

No, the only unusual sight was the man, attired in camouflage, patiently sitting on a bench in front of a corner storefront. An open manila folder was positioned across his lap, and the slam of the driver's side door

"Traffic?" Casey politely inquired, neatly tapping all the papers together while simultaneously closing the folder and rising from the bench. Somewhere nearby, bells were marking the hour—two o'clock.

Stepping up on to the curb, Sarah offered him a tense smile and took a sip of coffee. "Among other things." Like the work week from hell continuing on in a spectacular fashion.

That prompted another long swig.

Spending—literally—the entirety of Thursday and Friday rooting out the Fulcrum agents at Ft. Knox had been as demanding as she'd anticipated. The Plan called for her to leave LA the night before. As it was, things hadn't gotten under some modicum of control at Ft. Knox until several hours earlier, postponing her 'clandestine' departure for San Francisco to the early morning.

The two-tone ping of a store's entry chime drew Sarah's attention away from the much-needed source of caffeine and her own ruminations to the sight in front of her. Casey was looking at her expectantly while holding the door open. Tipping her head as a thank you, she walked through the doorway with more confidence than she was feeling into the corner jewelry store. She was in the process of taking a deep centering breath when the door audibly swish-clicked shut.

"Ready?" he immediately asked in a barely audible, yet much more Casey-esque, tone, taking advantage of the otherwise empty store to drop the pretense, if only for a moment.

As I'll ever be, she grimly thought, trying to keep the unjustifiable panic at bay with another deep breath. She was about to say as much when another two-tone ping sounded, heralding the entrance of two more customers.

Aware of their potential audience once again, she bought a little time by pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. Taking minute steps further into the store, she answered Casey's question by resuming their previous conversation in as normal of a voice as she could muster. "Where's Chuck?"

Casey stepped purposefully toward one of the display cases parallel to the entrance wall, but slightly off to Sarah's right. "Working lunch." Pulling off his own sunglasses and closing them with an efficient one-handed click-click, he used them to gesture out one of the windows. "Said he'd be done at the top of the hour."

A glance in the indicated direction revealed a small sidewalk bistro with a seating area enclosed by low wrought-iron fencing. Sarah easily spotted Chuck at a table outside with a half dozen other people. She noticed that Casey'd had a similar view from the sidewalk bench.

That fact, coupled with simply seeing him in person again, unharmed, brought more relief than she'd thought it would. Casey noticed the shift in her, and let out a single chuckle that, to anyone else, sounded appropriately amused. Being partners for so long, Sarah instead heard the underlying scoff-grunt and the implied message—something along the lines of, 'like I'd actually let the moron out of my sight.'

In some ways, it was nice to know that Casey was aware that the riskiest part of the entire Plan was still to come. They'd really been lucky up to this point. That luck needed to hold for at least another 24 hours.

Refocused by their exchange, both effortlessly shifted to the job at hand.

Looking in Chuck's direction also conveniently afforded them the excuse to look at the other two customers.

It was Sarah's turn to read Casey's body language, as the overly calm way he hooked his sunglasses into one of the pockets on his ACUs while turning away from the windows meant only one thing.

Fulcrum. Fantastic. They must be part of the contingent keeping tabs on Chuck.

The clerk decided to emerge from the back of the store just then, offering a polite smile of recognition to Casey. Without being asked, she crossed toward the display case and pulled out a few racks of wedding bands to set on the glass countertop.

"Chaplain's set," Casey suddenly started, surprising Sarah. He tossed the folder on top of the neighboring counter and folded his arms across his chest while sternly nodding toward the rings. "Caught him on base during drill today. He'll be at the hotel at 8. I'm treating him and you guys to dinner after. Also, your appointment at the County Clerk's in half an hour." A curious glance in his direction prompted an uncomfortable squirm before he reluctantly explained. "Wedding license. You both have to be present for it to be issued in California."

Who would have thought I'd see the day, she thought with a genuine smirk, draining the rest of her coffee. Sarah stepped up to the counter to give its contents a cursory glance. John Casey, wedding planner.

"You know," she started with a small chuckle-cough, electing to instead punctuate the phrase with an arched eyebrow in his direction before beginning a more detailed examination of the rings. "I think you missed your calling, John."

Even the promise of two Fulcrum agents pretending to look over engagement rings a few display cases down, now under the careful tutelage of the shop's clerk, wasn't enough to stop Casey from letting out a growl.

"Funny, Walker."

The use of her last name caused Sarah's head to slowly tip up to meet Casey's probing glare. A beat passed.

The usage was on purpose. It was significant.

Sarah could feel the shift into the preplanned conversation that constituted Stage VI of their Grand Plan. With that shift came a fair amount of dread—she'd been trying to formulate the specifics of her side of the exchange for a good portion of the seven-plus-hour drive up the coast. Unsurprisingly, for a multitude of reasons, she'd come up empty.

Giving away nothing, she somehow managed to calmly look back down to scrutinize one ring design that had caught her eye.

Playing his part to a tee, Casey continued to stare for moment longer, crossing his arms even more tightly before speaking in a low, hushed rumble.

"I know you. I know the life. That guy over there"—nodding with a jerk in Chuck's direction—"has no idea, and he's become a good friend of mine. You've become a good friend of mine. For both of your sakes, I'm going to ask this once." The NSA agent quickly unfolded his arms to underscore his pending point. "Are you sure about this," adding the question mark at the end with a single sharp rap on the glass counter, right next to the set of trays.

This. Civilian life. The big wedding. Settling down. Familial obligations. A life of her own choosing.

Something to actually lose.

It squarely hit at every hang-up, misgiving, fear, and source of conflict that'd torn her in half for the past two weeks, making her feel like a secret agent version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for majority of her waking moments.

And here was John Casey, having no idea that he was driving at the root of every serious conversation that Chuck'd been trying to prod her into, unsuccessfully, for the same amount of time.

For a staged conversation, this felt too real. Why do these all damn these conversations have to involve feeling so much?

Setting her empty cup down on the counter a bit unsteadily, it teetered from side to side before coming to rest. In the interim, she'd taken to gripping the edge of the counter with her eyes, of their own accord, tightly shut as the magnitude—and intensity—of the implications, the risks, the talks, the future took her aback.

Clenching her jaw a few times, swallowing once, and keeping her head tilted down toward the counter, she quietly answered.

"No." Glancing over quickly, the shock on Casey's face was real.

Truth be told, the answer surprised her, too.

Snapping her head back down again, Sarah continued just as quietly after a shaky breath. "If it were anyone else, no. But, for him?" She slowly looked back up to face Casey after a few barely perceivable nods, a ferocious seriousness lacing through her every word. "Yeah, absolutely."

In perfect time with her "absolutely," the store's entrance chime pinged. In walked a grinning Chuck. A knowing smirk came and went from Casey's face while neither was looking.

-.-.-.-

The smirk was a long gone memory by the time Casey got back to the hotel room that night around midnight.

After having to give an "impromptu" best man speech, Casey was now trying not to grind his teeth. Unsuccessfully.

The small wedding, held in one of the hotel's nicer event rooms, had gone off without a hitch. Dinner afterwards went fine as well. Aside from that speech, he mentally amended while locking the door behind him. If anyone got a video of that, I will end them.

Upside of that same horrid speech? He no longer had to split the room next door—standard-sized, two beds—with the country's most valuable nitwit. The irregular click-clack of laptop keys from the past three nights would, finally, be a distant memory. Perhaps he'd be less surly about the all-night typing if Bartowski had come up with something actionable regarding the virus, other than the next mutation was likely to occur sometime tomorrow.

Having just said goodnight to the newly married couple in the hallway a moment ago, Casey tossed his dress uniform jacket over the chair he'd positioned near the nightstand. A perfunctory glance around the room while changing into mission clothes confirmed that it was as he had left it before the wedding. No one had snooped around in the interim.

Snagging his gun off the hallway credenza, the NSA agent moved back toward the nightstand and cocked an ear.

He didn't hear any commotion next door yet. Stage VII called for all sorts of commotion. Commotion this early would be indicative of a Fulcrum ambush, and Stage VII did not call for that particular type of commotion.

A Fulcrum attack once Chuck and Sarah were inside the adjacent room, though, was called for. Team Chuck was ready for it—anticipating and encouraging it, even, using the surveillance and Marilyn's duplicity to feed information about their location and plans to an unsuspecting Fulcrum.

Listening carefully one more time, Casey snagged the ice bucket off the credenza and headed for the door.

Stage VII would also involve copious amounts of ice.

-.-.-.-

Day 17: Sunday

What Sarah remembered about the previous night was a surprising amount of restraint. Having been apart for days—and it being their wedding night—she had envisioned having to fight with her feelings tooth and nail to focus on the job at hand.

Judging by Chuck's worried look once they'd gotten inside, his worries had paralleled her own.

But now, in the morning light, those worries were all for naug…

Wait.

It was morning.

That wasn't right.

More of last night came back to her. Earlier in the week, she and Casey had agreed that, if they were in Fulcrum's position, they'd strike on the targets' wedding night. The former agent would be "distracted," and both targets would be vulnerable and otherwise occupied. Hence, restraint; Stage VII personified. The occupants of the room needed to put on enough of a show to induce the attack, but not enough to become defenseless.

What she never liked about this part of the plan was using Chuck as bait. It had serious risks, and 10 million things could go wrong.

However, Fulcrum didn't bite. They never showed up. Casey hadn't needed to come crashing through the connecting doors for a rescue.

Their supply of restraint also hadn't been limitless.

Eyes snapping open to take in the subdued light peaking under the edges of the comforter, she was struck by one immutable fact.

Something didn't feel right.

Muscles tensed automatically in reaction, and she shifted toward the open side of the bed. Her movements caused Chuck to stir. Sparing a small smile in his direction as he started to restlessly shift and wake up, she

"You're here." It came out more uncertain than she wanted. Her instincts were starting to scream louder with each passing moment.

"Of course I'm here," he answered groggily, opening and closing his eyes individually and then in tandem as he turned on his side and squinted to focus on her. "Where else would I be?"

He took one look at her expression and caught up. Quickly.

Sliding one hand toward her throwing knives, Sarah folded the comforter down to gain her first look at the sun-bathed room.

Three Fulcrum agents were present.

Two sat on the long edge of the other bed. The third sat in the desk chair, alternating between reading a pamphlet on San Francisco's many tourist attractions and checking his watch for the time.

Desk-sitter noticed the movement.

"You'll forgive the early intrusion. We would have been here sooner, but we didn't find out that you were both going to be in town until a few hours ago."

She didn't have to put on an act. The blood was draining from her face at a prestigious rate as one of the agents on the neighboring bed motioned for their hands to be made visible, sooner rather than later.

We planned for everything except an incompetent enemy. And incredibly wicked case of déjà vu.

-.-.-.-

Fortunately, clothing materialized in the process of being rousted.

Chuck was now sitting on the long edge of the vacant bed, sandwiched between the two Fulcrum agents. Sarah sat in a similar position on their bed. Both faced inward toward the shared nightstand.

Oddly, he was very thankful for the clothing.

Really, he thought, giving himself a mental head shake, this is not our biggest problem right now. Focus!

If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say that the guns probably took top honors right now. The gun pointing, specifically. The agent on the left had a gun pointed at his head. The agent on the right had a gun pointed at Sarah's. While his head snapped around the room, taking in the details, Sarah's gaze hadn't left Desk sitter yet.

Maybe she was debating the same point he was—Is the dearth of gun pointing from Desk-sitter a good or bad thing? At the moment, the un-gun pointing agent was ambling around the room. Chuck was still internally debating this point when the agent in question began to speak.

"Before we begin, I'd like to make it clear that your friend next door is otherwise detained." Having ambled over to the connecting door, the deadbolt clicked into place a startling amount of finality. "Counting on his assistance when formulating your answer would therefore be unwise."

Chuck's eyes went wide and brain went into overdrive. No gun pointing equals BAD, because he knows he has the advantage. Aside from the continued color—or lack thereof—in her face, Sarah didn't react to the news. At least to the untrained eye. Chuck noticed her eyes flicker in his direction once in reassurance, a movement so fast that he wondered if he had imagined it.

Desk-sitter began slowly walking back toward the beds, leaving little doubt as to whom he was addressing due to his unwavering focus on the bed with one occupant only.

"Now, on to business. I won't insult your intelligence—you know what it is that we want. You have 5 seconds to agree to our conditions, or else…"

Once the familiar sentence had started, her stomach had taken up residence somewhere near her knees.

With the deliberate glance at Chuck, time stopped. Her pulse roared in her ears, inducing a flash of fierce ringing that only dissipated once time started back up again.

One thing was clear. She was getting him out of this. Period.

"Five…"

The nightstand's lamp was wall mounted, removing a possible weapon. Her throwing knives were under the pillow on the far side of the bed, and there sure as hell was not a Manitoba-sized knife under the near-side pillow. Without a distraction, there was no way she'd be able to stretch over to grab one without getting Chuck shot.

"…four..."

She risked a glance in Chuck's direction—he was looking back at her with a barely contained amount of panic.

Desk-sitter's cell phone, holstered on his belt, rang, interrupting their moment as both heads snapped toward the sound. The count continued unbidden.

"…three..."

Desk-sitter reached the end of the beds and angled himself toward Sarah. Doing so put his cell phone close enough to Chuck for the caller ID display to be readable.

The Intersect knew the incoming phone number.

Caught off guard, Chuck did his best to hide the flash with an amalgamation of an oncoming-sneeze and a oooh-sour-sour-sour expression. He succeeded in keeping his eyes from going wide, but once the information from the flash subsided, and all the pieces fell into place, they did so anyways.

I know what the virus is going try to do! Oh, not good not good not good not good…

With a sudden resurgence of determination, he clenched his jaw and let his eyes dart furiously around the room, trying to find them a way out of this mess.

"…two…"

Sarah's silent calculation of angles, reaction times, and acceptable injuries was derailed the moment she caught the flash. From the look that shot across Chuck's face, she knew he'd figured something out. Quickly redoubling her efforts, the cocking of a gun registered somewhere else in her mind, as did the shifting of a mattress as the shooter set his stance.

Unexpectedly at the shift of the mattress, Chuck's shoulders tensed and relaxed. She risked one last quick glance in his direction before subtly positioning herself for her strike.

She was taken aback by the earnest, yet intense, expression he was fighting to hold in. Studying the wall to his right as surreptitiously as possible, his eyes slid toward her once, the message clear.

He's got an idea.

The symmetry of their actions and motivations struck her with stunning alacrity and clarity.

She was also struck by the need to stop him from doing anything stupid.

"…one…"

Slowly swallowing, she deliberately looked at him so he could see the truth in the statement.

"You know I love you, right?" Her voice had started off steady, but had hitched halfway through.

His eyes immediately flew wide and ceased their last-second check around the room, locking on to hers. Shock was immediate. The grin was slower to form—as if the gravity of the words necessitated longer to process than normal words—but once it did, it was radiant. She could feel the start of a reciprocal grin spreading across her face, and in that beat, she noticed a twitch of hesitation from the man on Chuck's left.

It was the break she needed, and she took it.

In the same span of time—Chuck (being Chuck) saw what she was about to do and scrambled to preempt her.

They ended up moving simultaneously, a hair's breadth before "zero."

Gunshots and chaos ensued.

-.-.-.-

Casey was just beginning to wake up when the sound of a nearby door opening and swooshing shut brought him fully out of dreamland.

He then discovered that his hands and feet were bound. Several shelves of canned food and bottled water spanned the entirety of his entire field of vision.

What the hell?

Coughing once—everything seemed have a fine coating of dust—Casey tensed once to test the strength of the ropes. He was surprised to find them quickly slackening, and shook them off without further pretense.

"Am I the only one that finds it funny that this is the emergency disaster supply locker?" asked a voice Casey knew all too well.

"Disaster," retorted deceptively calm female voice, "as in what almost just happened in our hotel room? Or emergency, as in what we have now?"

Rolling over wordlessly, Casey found a slightly worse-for-wear Bartowski handing back a knife to a full-on-agent-mode Walker.

I don't even want to know, Casey thought as he climbed to his feet and methodically brushed himself off as the exchange continued.

"Put 'averted' in front of 'disaster,' and then yes, that's what did just happen in our room."

It earned the former Herder a small scoff, but a more neutral eye roll from his freshly minted wife as she handed Casey a backup piece.

"Oh, come on!" Chuck continued while Casey got squared away. "There's a reason I steered us away from that bed last night! I didn't want to get gorilla-squished by Johnny over here in case he had to come BARRELLING through that wall to save us!"

"Watch it, Bartowski," Casey growled. Now he knew exactly how their morning had gone, work-wise. Tilting his head once to indicate the windowless closet no larger than the Cage at the Buy More, he moved on to the more pressing issue. "What the hell happened? What emergency?"

Sarah answered his first question with a poorly concealed ire as Chuck poked around the various boxes of supplies. "Let's just say that our friends are less efficient than we thought."

Casey scowled at the cryptic answer.

"Fine," she elaborated, taking more care to keep her voice down. "They took down the wrong room number. They thought our room was yours."

"Idiots."

Squinting at a case of fire extinguishers, Chuck absently nodded his agreement with Casey's statement.

"The emergency is that we've got to move," Sarah continued. "This meeting starts in less than an hour. The Intersect flashed and Chuck got a line on the virus."

"Oh, did he now?" Grabbing the back of his asset's shirt to pull him out of his curious poking and back into the conversation, Casey couldn't help but smirk at the former's startled yelp. His smirk grew at Walker's less-than-amused glare. "Fine. The virus in 15 seconds. Start talking."

With the look he was getting from Casey, Chuck didn't need to be told twice. He flew.

"They're going to try to transmit and embed subliminal behavior triggers. Kind of a mix between The Manchurian Candidate and Serenity. When triggered, you'd spew your own knowledge or engage in a particular behavior. That's why the code was so weird. The picture was acting as a placeholder for the sublimina..."

Casey cut him off at exactly 15 seconds with an immediate follow-up. "Implications?"

"Uh, if it works? And the right people see it? Spewing secrets at the drop of a hat, I guess. If the code doesn't work…I don't know. I suppose it could be harmless, like it could bounce right off people..."

"…or it could fry people's brains," Casey interrupted again. "Got it. You can tell Beckman the flash particulars and all the technical mumbo-jumbo later. Not important for right now."

He swore the words "SERIOUS NATIONAL SECURITY RISK" were hovering above their heads, styled in large flashing neon.

Taking a moment to process, the NSA agent quickly moved on. "Plan?"

Sarah began to answer, but the sound of footsteps outside the door immediately silenced all the occupants of the remote closet. Casey and Sarah exchanged a meaningful look and prepared to strike as the footfalls came closer. As suddenly as the footfalls started, however, they stopped. The jangling of keys took their place. A muttered, "Damn it, wrong set of keys" was audible through the door before the footsteps receded.

Some well-defined, but unmentioned, amount of time was parceled out silently. Once it passed, the coast seemingly clear, the agents flew into motion. While Casey dragged one of the ladders to the center of the room, Sarah grabbed a fire ax from one of the wall-mounted racks and cleanly broke off the inside door handle with a well-placed blow.

"We have a plan?" Chuck asked nervously, trying to restart the previous line of discussion. "Because this meeting of theirs starts in a few minutes in a conference room on the other side of the hotel, and if the mutation is going to occur during or near this meeting…"

"I know, Chuck. We're improvising. Sort of." Sarah pointed up at the ceiling. "Air vent for now. Casey and I'll work out the details as we go."

Both boys unwittingly cringed at the thought of maneuvering in ventilation ducts again.

Blowing a stray piece of hair out of her eyes, Sarah balanced the ax across her left shoulder. With her right hand planted on her hip, it brooked little room for argument.

"Either of you have a better idea?"

A beat passed.

Casey scooting up the ladder with a surprising amount of dexterity to rip off the vent covering served as his answer. Before he hoisted himself all the way into the vent, he pointed a finger at Chuck.

"Hack the security feeds. Make sure none of last night or this makes it on there. And figure out a way to muck up your techno-buddies so that they can't mutate the whatever-the-hell."

With that, Casey disappeared into the ceiling.

"…uhhh, that's actually going to be a little difficult, big guy. I don't know if I ca…"

Unexpectedly, Casey poked his head back out of the opening to growl at Chuck with all the venom that he'd been unable to use as of late. "Just do it, moron."

Raising his hands in exasperation, he turned to Sarah for support. What he got was a sympathetic smile and peck on the cheek before being steered gently toward the ladder.

"Sorry, but I agree on the video. Just do your best. We're running out of options."

Even more exasperated, Chuck nonetheless checked for his iPhone before climbing up the rungs and responding.

"Out of curiosity, dear, what are your thoughts on your husband becoming such a persistent law-breaker and miracle-worker? Promise to come visit me in prison?"

"Promise," she answered deadpan. "I'll even consider bringing Morgan to see you once and a while."

-.-.-.-

All of the secretive alphabet agencies—his NSA included—were very much involved with the aftermath of the incident in San Francisco. How this conflagration managed to erupt, he still wasn't sure. Details continued to be scarce, other than this was a Big Deal. It was so Big that he had the distinct pleasure of being called in to supervise the dozens of minions reviewing every minute of security footage from the hotel. On the weekend. During his West Coast vacation, no less.

It ended up being a fortuitous coincidence.

Quietly walking behind the technicians, the video on one of the tech's monitors gave Tim pause.

Thoughtfully, Tim fished for his Blackberry. He quickly reread the last few sentences of Marilyn's most recent email

…especially after the raid on Wednesday night, everything that I'm seeing and hearing suggests that Walker and Casey both being in LA is a coincidence, and I'm hearing it from multiple sources. I don't know how much more conclusive the evidence could get. While you, Justin, and I go way back, I'm on thin ice at work with the embezzlement scandal. Continuing surveillance and being found out isn't worth the risk, and I'm pulling it indefinitely.

Let me know when you're in town next. It was good to see you.

Best,

Marilyn

Tim looked back at the monitor that'd caught his eye.

The segment playing was from early Sunday morning, before the incident occurred. It was of Walker and Bartowski having lunch in the hotel's restaurant—arguing over something of little consequence, judging by the amount of laughing interspersed throughout.

When John Casey entered several minutes later, also all grins, Tim looked down and started typing.

By the time his reply had trickled through cyberspace and reached its intended destination, the NSA agent had already pocketed his phone and resumed walking his rounds behind the technicians.

Marilyn,

You were right—it has to be seen to be believed. Consider me convinced. I agree with your conclusion. I'll tell the others that it's a coincidence. In just being around Walker at work, if you happen anything otherwise, though, let me know.

All the best,

Tim

-.-.-.-END-.-.-.-

A/N2: A very large thanks to all that decided to hang in there and push for an end to this story. In writing it the way I did, I feel like I'm committing some great injustice because of how much so many of you seemed to enjoy it, and had high expectations as a result. For that I do apologize, but at the end of the day, it does confirm one thing for sure: you are all, truly, awesome. Thank you again.