I always thought it would be a fun challenge to write from a drell's point of view.

I really had no idea just how challenging it would be.

Another Jane 'Foucault' Shepard tale. One shot from multiple memories.

What the Water Gave Me
A Thane Krios story

This playground is endless. It stretches in wide tunnels that dig into this massive, moon sized rock. The air is stale but warm. My body appreciates the heat. I crawl from a distance, popping off heads as I watch Shepard and her team weave through this network. My reflexes begin to feel dull. I am not trained for war. I am not trained to work with others, beating down this endless wave of wired corpses and moving shells. I am made to read my enemies from afar, their careful crawl, their predictable dance. I am more useful when Harbinger rears his ugly head, glowing eyes peering distantly and tactfully. Then I can dwell just at the perimeter, just outside of the fight. Raise my sniper gun.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

We drell are not crafted for war.

"Even before we starved our own world, records indicated that our nations rarely engaged in open conflict. It's not practical."

Irikah sits across from me, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress as she reads outloud from a primitive scroll.

I have only started to read children's books. So it is very difficult for me to understand more sophisticated documents. Lucky for me, Irikah is a scientist and a historian. She has acquired the highest education among the hanar and drell, and has taken it upon herself to be my private tutor.

"Yes but, I have little choice. I must repay my family's debt," I solemnly answer.

"You are roaming outside of our city dome," Irikah states calmly. "If you continue to expose yourself to Kahje's atmosphere, you will get Kepral's syndrome."

"It is worth the risk," I return.

The woman presses the palms of her hands to her knees, one set of eyelids peel back to reveal the brilliant blues, reds, and yellows of her irises. Irikah is annoyed. "We no longer have to continue upholding our old laws and honor code. Those are ancient, Thane. The code isn't sound. Self preservation is too important to us. Its in our genes, our bodies, our blood. We are inherently pacifists - that is why we only kill for others and take no pleasure in it. You are torturing yourself for an ancient, backwards code of honor."

"But, I don't understand.." I begin, leaning into the table as I counter. "True, we cannot physically fight in open war, but we are not beyond killing each other. We do not kill pointlessly, but our bodies can kill efficiently."

"That isn't reason enough to be a part of the killing game, Krios," Irikah's voice rolls into deeper registers, soft fans of scales that drape across her shoulders flaring slightly.

She must be irritated.

"If you wish to... to... honor your masters, then adopt their customs," She responds cooly, webbed fingers straightening the folds in her gown. "The hanar believe it is rude to kill, an atrocity against the Enkindler-"

"But I am not hanar. I am drell." I interrupt. "I have no other skills, Irikah. If I do not pay my family's debt, another assassin will kill me."

But that assassin never did kill me. He killed Irikah instead.

When she died, I have prepared myself to follow her.

Today, I am ready to die.

I have spent many years coming to terms with this reality. I've avoided Kolyat because I want to protect him. I do not want my son's youthful, beautiful years to be interrupted by the tragic realities of life and death. He is young, and youth is beauty. He has not experienced life yet, he has so much to sift through, so much opportunity. Why would I burden a star that shines so bright? It is best I die without him knowing.

I tried to explain this to Shepard. I tried to confess the shadows of my past.

But she never listened. She always walked away.

Commander Shepard never spoke to me. Never engaged. I could hear her, sometimes, walking past my door ...

The walk is heavy, 400 pounds of bone and internal prosthetics hits the ground one foot after the other. She is not wearing her armor, otherwise the leg braces muffle her weight by using mass effect technology coordinating a slight anti-gravity field. She weighs at least 400 pounds, at least between 415 to 400 pounds. She was a living biotic, but you can't see the seams. She looks so human. You wouldn't know, unless you could hear it in her foot steps. I turn my head. Grey eyes flash. Pinpoint reds peek through human pupils, eyes widen, capturing my attention. She stops. What is she thinking? Will she come in?

She walks away.

The collector walks forward. My vision of the door dissolves, and a terrifying collector tunnel replaces Normandy's cramped life support room. I knock the butt of my rifle into the creature's head, sliding my fingers under the crevice of his skull's exoskeleton and peel back the scale - revealing the soft innards of his body.

There is no brain.

He dies instantly, in a pattern. Again and again and again. A flash as I relive every collector death taken down by this same technique. I must try sliding my fingers closer to the neck, surely I will be faster that way.

Few people understand how a drell thinks, and few drell understand how others perceive the world. We have eidetic memories, we can't experience linear timelines like a majority of species. My mind is constantly layered by images of Irikah's lessons, Irikah's death, Shepard's avoidance, Kolyat's redemption, and five hundred collector deaths at once or in different sequences. It was once explained to me that most organic species see time as it exists in a single plane.

What Irikah said is true. I am designed to survive, and safeguard the survival of others. It is in my biology. It is why my memories merge. So I can see predictable patterns, and avoid negative outcomes.

Black heels thump the ground. Warm brown hair, few strays peaking in different directions as the human Miranda Lawson pushes it behind her ear. I have heard it mentioned this woman is the ideal human - genetically modified specifically to be a perfect example of her species. Or is she simply a social construct? Does the color of her hair, skin, and eyes truly determine what is human genetic perfection? I don't see how. Her skin color makes her stand out in battle. She lacks camoflague. Even Jacob, a 'normal' human, blends in better settings. Her voice is terse, short, pointed, "Commander Shepard, do you need a copy of Dr. Mordin's notes concerning the Genophage cur-"

"I already have it." The commander raises her hand, finger pointing to her head while barely acknowledging the officer. Shepard is not modified. She is not perfect. She is a random sequence of genetics that happened to create her. She has flaws. She is imperfect.

"But..." Hesitation. Confusion. Uncertainty. Discomfort. Paranoia. Disbelief. Imperfect emotions drip from Miranda's voice "... But its still encrypted."

Shepard rolls her shoulders and walks the opposite direction. Insulted? Belittled? "Don't mock me." And Shepard walks away, leaving Officer Lawson confused and contemplating her own manufactured perfection.

It was then that it dawned on me.

Shepard is a human with an eidetic memory. Surely, some sort of rare mutation among her species. I know few species that aren't drell whose mind manifests this way. But a genetic mutation? That is quite profound. I do not know another species with individuals who carry this mutation.

I felt lucky. I now know how to communicate with Shepard.

"I have a son."

"So you spawned. Organic species tend to do that." Her words are bitter. The life support's engines exhale, generating a hum that fills the emptiness.

I try to convince her. I plead. I avoid her gaze. I do not know how to manipulate emotion. I do not know how to read humans. I do not understand her body's language. I do not know what she means when her arms cross under her chest. I do not know what she means when her weight shifts to the other leg. I do not understand why she rolls her eyes up, to the side, then stares at me.

But I do know that she experiences memories as I do.

So I speak honestly. I pray she listens.

"I am dying, Shepard. He is in danger of following in my foot steps. I must save my so-"

Before I can finish, she walks away.

Shepard always walks away.

The following day, we were at the Citadel. The commander made little announcement. She only approached my door and demanded I follow her. When we approached C-sec's offices, the turian - Garrus Vakarian - inquired on her behalf. 'Have you seen a young drell?' 'Where can we dig to find information?'. Commander Shepard spoke only three times - to threaten a duct rat for information and pull a full confession by barely interrogating a corrupt human ('I am a spectre. I can kill you without legal repercussions. Shall we continue or do you want me to shove coffee up your ass?'), and a tight response after shooting an anti-human turian politician to clear any damning evidence that might follow Kolyat's future ('He was corrupt. No loss for both sides. I'm here to make sure my crew can do their damn jobs, and if silencing him helps save this galaxy, so be it.').

Shepard was anything but predictable.

Most creatures with eidetic memories are very unpredictable.

It's why drell make fantastic assassins.

"There. Your son is safe. Now you pull this shit again and I'll find another drell assassin. You seem to be a dime a dozen. Maybe this time I'll find one that isn't dying."

It's why Shepard is such a fantastic one herself.

There is some comfort in her company, brief as our conversations may be. Saving Kolyat nudged her curiosity, and questions spilled from her lips. Though, never about my personal life. Never prying about my feelings. She didn't care about any of that. But she was fascinated by my physiology, my religion, and my relationship with hanar. She wanted numbers, letters, cold data. She did not want my personal input. Perhaps there was some connection between us. We both experience memories the same way. It is a profound connection.

Emotionally, however, Shepard should have been a salarian. She made for a lousy human and an even worse drell. It was as if she lacked any empathy or spirituality.

There is a cold precision to her character. I've spent many hours meditating on my choices and my life, and this chapter - my strange friendship with Shepard - is something that has haunted my recent thoughts.

"So you can pull out memories perfectly, in all its crashing detail?" Shepard starts, studying me from the smooth distance between us. "Do all drell experience this? Or are you unique?"

Dry lips purse together, the sound of a chair creeks. Grey eyes flash thoughtfully, hand pushing back a tangle of hair. She is getting bored. "Well, answer me. And don't be boring," Shepard rolls her eyes, tapping her jaw. "I hate boring answers."

It is hard not to be boring. Shepard is always bored.

"Yes," I say. "I can remember when the moment I strangled an asari diplomat. Or the taste of my wife's lips, warm, dry, swee-"

"Stop," She interrupts me. "I didn't ask for a personal tirade. Just answer, yes or no."

"But... you said you did not want me to be borin-"

"Yes. And you utterly failed that. Now, just a yes or no will suffice."

"I... yes."

Shepard nods curtly. "Extraordinary."

She stands up and walks away.

She always walks away.

"I am the Harbinger of your futur-"

Pop pop pop. The anesthetic white walls disappear, revealing this giant, hot playground. I snap a heat clip into the Mantis sniper rifle, and whisper a prayer to Arashu, a goddess who blends and moves through time as she protects and guides her children from infancy to death. Arashu, guide my hand to victory. Lend me your spirit and foresight, I must help from afar. I sacrifice my life to safeguard theirs. Guide my hand, as you have guided Siha's.

I do not ask that she safeguard me. But I do pray she succeeds, on behalf of your will.

The present dissolves again, into the past.

"Stop calling me Siha. I am not Siha," Shepard responds tersely, clicking the muzzle brake at the end of her gun. This mission require we covertly tread through a geth ship. Legion, this AI ally, guiding us through these blind cooridors. Three assassins, three sniper scopes trained on the optics of machines solemnly praying to some dead god.

Pop. Pop pop pop.

They all fall before they can wake.

"... Forgive me."

Shepard shakes her head, as she steps over the wired, metal corpses. She speaks then, her voice low. Grey eyes bury into mine, her words carefully selected, "Arashu, lend me Siha's strength so that I may pave through this heavy desert storm. Lend me Siha's eyes so that I may see the patterns and weave past the weather. Lend me Siha's voice so that I my cry can break through the ground and find water." Shepard finishes the prayer, adjusting her scope and blowing the gun rail until it cooled - sliding her hand across the tools as they compartmentalize with a snap.

I can't hide my surprise. "... I've... I've never said that prayer out loud. Where did you hear it?" I respond, staring.

Shepard says nothing, before motioning Legion to move forward.

We did not speak about prayers after that.

At least, not directly.

Kasumi frequently teased me, hiding in the rafters above my bed and sharing long nights with light conversation. My religion fascinates her, and I enjoy her stories of art heists. One story stands out in particular. Kasumi had protected an ancient shrine to the lord Amonkira, and with rich detail, she recalled his statue. Particularly the jewels of his eyes.

"Emeralds and sapphires, translucent diamond that encased these gems seamlessly. I'm serious, I could NOT find a seam in that diamond cover. Then there was this deep ebony rock, perfectly symmetrical, that cupped these layers of jewels." Kasumi's voice echoes above me. I can't see her, but I know where she was. "The eyes are very important to drell, aren't they? I mean, you did put in about... my god, priceless minerals to make Amonkira's eyes."

"Ancient religions once believed that my home world was the eye of a god. They were more primitive, then. They were monotheistic," I offer.

Kasumi laughs, "Monotheism being primitive? There are some asari and humans you might disagree with you a great deal."

I chuckle and spread my hands across the sheets of my bed.

"Speaking of gods..." The human thief starts, her voice becoming more inquisitive. "I have a question, if you don't mind my asking... about a certain drell prayer?"

I roll my shoulders and brace the back of my head, resting deeper into the mattress of my bed as I stare circles above me, along the rafters... where Kasumi probably is. "Yes, what do you want to know?"

"Well, I was wondering why our esteemed Commander has a tattoo of a drell prayer across her lower back."

I disappear into my memories, a deep moment where my mind flips through every moment I spent in Shepard's company. With new eyes, I try to decipher her motions. The way her lips tightened when I asked for help. How her body stiffened in slight exaggeration when I thank her. The flash of gray eyes as I answer her cold, calculated questions about drell physiology. How she walks away when our conversation becomes too personal. She always walks away.

But I never prayed outloud. Not in front of her. Out of respect.

"Thane? Thaaane... Hellooo..."

I snap awake at Kasumi's voice, rolling my eyes upwards to moisten them under the thin veil of my eyelids. "I... Where was I?"

"Well, you went into about seven different tirades at once. A lot of 'Flashing grey eyes' 'Sunset colored eyes' 'Red laser dot' 'She walks away. She always walks away', you know. Just the typical odd eidetic memory drops. Synopsis, or whatever you drell call it," I could hear the humor in Kasumi's voice. Sarcasm? I think? That's what humans call it? Or is it teasing. Its difficult to tell between the two.

"It is strange," I admit. "I have never told her a prayer. The commander is not very spiritual."

A hand reaches out from the shadows of the rafters, and I feel my omnitool buzz as information is linked from an encrypted signal. I turn my wrist around and flick on the tool, expanding my fingers so the image enlargens. It is an ancient scroll. I can't read it, but I recognize it.

"Do you know what it means?" Kasumi inquires.

My small room dissolves into an outside garden, oasis flowers sprout across the bank of a well. Dry brush crunches underfoot, I brace my hands behind my back as I walk in a small circle. Irikah brushes her hand across the scroll's replica, her voice picking deeper tones. We've turned off our translator chips so we can listen to the natural pitches in our voices, so that I can drink the strange, outdated language of my people.

"Time grows quicker, patterns spin between us. Liquid sapphire kisses these arid grounds, the gentle sleeve of Kalahira's embrace. The water gave me life, and now it grants me death. Lay me down to be baptized in my infancy, lay me down to find peace in my death. Fill my pockets with stones, and let the only sound I hear be the overflow. My soul and body separate slowly in life, until old age they almost severe. Let the water renew," Irikah whispers in deep registers.

It isn't a prayer. It's a poem. I recited it when I pushed Irikah into Kahje's ocean, fingers bracing the oasis lilies and kissing the salted pier. We begin with the water. We end with the water. We find peace in the water.

"It is hard to explain," I answer Kasumi, returning to that moment. "But... it means... Shepard is not afraid of dying, and is actually quite ready and willing to embrace it." I close my eyes.

It means, she is tired and wants peace. Shepard and I had more in common than I ever thought.

Eyes flash grey.

Cool, scaled hands rest together. A silent prayer for the innocent blood shed. I tried to save them, but I could not safeguard all. Such needless violence that I created. What went wrong? What could I have done to quiet my steps? My plot? My purpose? A prayer to the goddess of sand, whose scales gleamed silver under the hot stars. She who wears a double face, fertility and infertility. Forgiveness and regret. Have mercy on this soul

A human studies me from nearby - the sand colored skin creatures, though her skin is lighter hues. This human followed me here, along with a seasoned turian and adolescent krogan companion.

"I just tore this place apart looking for you. The least you can do is look at me." Grey eyes flash.

"What do you want from me?" I ask calmly

"Commander Jane Shepard," She answers briskly. "I am leading a crew to destroy the collectors. I'll explain later. The only thing you need to know right now is that you probably won't make it out of that mission alive. Will you join us or not?" She is quick. To the point. She's not trying to convince me. That would be weak.

Shepard is not weak. Nor does she tolerate weakness.

But she is deeply flawed.

I return to the present.

This is not my battlefield. These targets are not familiar to me. My performance is less than perfect. The way my arm moves, it lacks fluidity. My limb feels detached and awkward, I lack grace. My body is navigating in the open without shadows. I have no alternative routes. I anticipate disappearing, however vanishing techniques aren't effective against dead husks and empty collectors. They see me without using senses. They operate as a network. These enemies are beyond me. I am a creature who attacks from the darkness; how am I to operate efficiently when my safe haven is occupied by so many who anticipate my every move?

"Get it together or we will die," Shepard's voice buzzes in my comlink, as she navigates deeper into the collector's base.

She is tired of repeating that command in my ear. In Miranda's ear. In Tali's ear. I am not the only one whose body falters. I keep hearing her voice time and time again after I fail a clean headshot, or if the bullet clips a shoulder instead of the neck. If I was lucky, a stray slug knicked one of their legs. But for the life of me, my body refuses to cooperate with my mind. My logic is crystal clear, but my instincts fail me.

Suicide missions I have done, but I'm learning that this mission is not my style. I accepted Shepard's offer because I feel my life is now worthless. But now that I have reconnected with my son and formed a deeper bond with my gods, I fear my desire to survive is overpowering my leave. I did not anticipate the want to protect others, and knowing my death may spell the end of the galaxy is an exhausting burden.

"I swear to god Thane, if you don't get it together, we are all dead," Shepard shouts at me behind the spray of bullets, back pressing into the wall as she hits the last ventilation block.

My eyes stray upward, watching the geth sniper continue through the upper registers of a transluscent tunnel above us. Miranda Lawson screams an obscenity, pulling around to cover from the front, heavy cannon bullets biting into the enflamed exoskeleton of a possessed Collector. This is not my battle. This is not my place. How can I navigate through the field when I did not possess the spirit of a warrior? I am an assassin, not a soldier. I work alone, surprise is my weapon. How can I attack when I have no weapon in the dark to use in this war?

"Shepard, I need a status report now!"

"Goddammit.. Garrus, we are a few clicks away, I need more cover fire... Thane, what the HELL? Hit the damn thing in the head NOW."

The command briefly startles me. Quickly, my cool returns. My hands steady the sniper rifle. I briefly disappear behind my cloaking device as I line my shot, two glowing eyes peering through the cross hairs of my scope. One finger tightens around the trigger, muscle straining against the weight. I watch as a bullet eclipses the creature's eye, shattering its skull in a shower of fluid and fire.

There are no brains.

A brief calm relieves my senses, allowing me a few moments. This peace.. such peace. My mind floods with the memories of such a peace. How beautiful it is and was. Silence from the buzz, a quiet ocean, the warmth of another beside me, a playful smile meeting a thoughtful expression. All these memories of peace match this, connect with this, flowing through my experiences simultaneously, threading into an interlocking tapestry of the past and present.

I feel a sudden pain at my side.

"Shit..."

Shepard's words flow through my mind, but how can I pay them heed now? I am not here, I am lost embracing the beauty that surrounds me in this ugly world. Oh, and what beauty. The sun, how it cast into the sharp color of her eyes, bending the light into a melting spectrum. Fierce, temperamental. How the color was so beautiful, oranges, blues and reds. Her pupils dilate as the laser red dot dances above the bridge of her flat nose.

Irikah.

A human studies me from nearby - the sand colored skin creatures, though her skin is lighter hues. This human followed me here...

Shepard.

... Oh, and what beauty. The sun, how it cast into the sharp color of her eyes, bending the light...

Irikah.

... Grey eyes flicker at me. Oh, and what beauty.

Shepard. Irikah.

"Legion! Are we there?"

My mental escape leaves me distant. Briefly, I pay attention to the present, but only briefly. Sometimes I notice that Shepard has me in her arms, sometimes I notice that my light frame drapes over her shoulders like a slaughtered animal. Ah, yes. Shepard is Siha. She is the warrior angel. So perfect, despite her distance. So strong, despite her species. Irikah too was Siha. Siha, who wears multiple masks. Siha who lived multiple lives simultaneously, the angel who manifests blessed mortals. Siha is memory. Siha is parallel thought. Siha is Shepard. Siha is Irikah.

Siha ran, dodging the stray bullets, my eyes following Miranda behind us. Then my ideas and my thoughts stray backwards into other memories. I held her hand, thumbs pressing into chilled skin, sunset colored eyes, the smell of native nectar, a child gone waywards, tears.

"Shepard, what the hell!" My radio cries. The turian was losing patience and calm.

"Close those damn doors, Legion! Now!"

I see them, figures kissed into darkness emerging now into light. How strange, that such distant people would become like family to me. Did they know? Did I ever imagine I would have such a connection with humans? With an asari? A quarian? Even a geth? The cool embrace of long arms, holding me then and now. The past watches me, Irikah's fingers touching my cheek. The present was ablaze in anger, Shepard's palm applies pressure to my bleeding side.

"Dammit Thane, we are not going to lose you now," Shepard snaps, grey eyes flashing.

"Siha," I whisper in response, my hand grasps hers. She is applying pressure to the wound, but I can feel my lung collapsing. "I was already dying."

"Bullshit," Shepard snaps. "No one dies unless I let them die."

And then she lifts me. That woman, that strange human woman, lifts me and throws me over her shoulder. I am bleeding. I am dying. But she won't let go.

"Time grows quicker..." I start whispering, dropping my sniper gun and picking up my machine pistol - anything with lesser recoil. If Shepard insists on keeping me alive, then I might as well be useful. "... The water gave me life, and now it grants me death. Lay me down to be baptized in my infancy, lay me down to find peace in my death. Fill my pockets with stones, and let the only sound I hear be the overflow. My soul and body separate slowly in life, until old age they almost severe. Let the water renew."

Shepard did not tense. She did not slow. She kept moving, the meeting point just ahead. "So you know about the tattoo," Shepard growls. "Well, whatever keeps you from fucking DYING."

"It is a prayer for those... ready to die..." I gasp.

She grows quiet, though I can't say it was because of this confrontation. Though, she did respond quite briskly after punching a husk's head in - "I'm not just going to let you go. Don't expect confessions or some deep profound connection between us, Thane. Not in the middle of a fucking SUICIDE MISSION!"

"Send Kolyat my love. Tell him I may not have been a father, but he was and will always be a perfect son."

"Hold the fuck ON, Thane. Don't you fucking DARE GIVE UP."

I held the boy in my arms. Embracing the small figure. Protect him with my life. Instinctually, emotionally, physically bonded. Changed.

I kill because I love.

I pulled him across my shoulder and smile.

Shepard threw me over her shoulder and grunts.

We live simultaneous lives. Past into present into future. Cyclical. Forever. Into itself. Again and again.

The drell believe that once we die, we return to the lives that we've passed, as if it is a never ending cycle.

I will come back again.

I shall relive my same life. My terrible life of regret and sadness, but of hope and joy.

The battleground was expansive, a plane of hot ground and displaced rubble. My body is engineered for aired environments, but my training is limited in this open space. My reflexes are dulled by this playground contrived of flat surfaces and confrontation. I was never trained for war - I work best in the shadows, reading my enemies in stealth and dwelling outside the fight.

I have to remind myself right now.

I chose to die here.

Flash. And I find myself in the future. The collectors dissolve. The pain in my side disappears. The bleeding refrains. My body is sore as it recovers, and the sound of bullets and groaning dead bodies disappears into the drunken laughter of a celebrating crew. I blink, and spin around, regarding my friends, my acquaintances, and my life as it currently forms itself. I stop slipping back into memories, and start creating new ones. Shepard is across from me, her upper body draped over the Normandy's bar as she studies me with a thoughtful gaze.

"You begin to lose sense of where you actually are if you keep falling back into your memories, you know," She offers.

"Forgive me," I respond, staring at the empty glass in my hands.

"Its not worth it. Looking back and reliving every moment, every happiness, every regret.. It isn't worth it. It distracts you from what's really important," Shepard taps her heart - twice. Replicating a human heart beat.

I chose to die there, in those collector tunnels. I chose to die there, I predicted I would when Shepard requested my assistance. A suicide mission was a perfect way to die. But sometime ago, somewhere between meeting Irikah and begging Shepard to help me with Kolyat, I chose to live.

It is a side effect of drell genetics. We strive for self preservation. At least, that is what Irikah told me.

I smile at Shepard and lift my empty glass. My tongue is heavy as I begin to recite, "Fill my pockets with stones."

"... Let me feel the overflow. It is what the water gives us, birth and death. Cycle anew." Shepard mutters in her drink. "But not until I'm ready."

"When will you be ready, Shepard?" I ask thoughtfully. "When will you be ready to feel the water's embrace?"

"Oh, you'll know when," And she walks away.

Shepard always walks away.

Author's Notes:

Shamelessly inspired by Florence + The Machine. I am very excited for ME3.

The idea of a high functioning autistic 'Savior of the Galaxy' always fascinated me. Renegade Shepard is my pov into that path, as complicated as it is. Maybe I've been watching too much Sherlock lately. Garrus is totally Watson.

Also - Thane is fun. Hard as HELL to write, but worth trying.

Love.