6 : 234 : 09 : 13 : 09

A light click rings in my ears. It bears an unnerving vibe of finality. The rough chain of the medallion is cold on my skin. It gives me goosebumps. Maybe it’s because of bad past experiences, but I don’t like having anything metallic or tight around my neck. Not even a muffler. But in this case, I’ve got no choice but to grin and bear it.

I’ve noticed there's this on-going theme in life; you have to put up with a lot of unpleasant shit in order to avoid dealing with things that are even worse. Funnily, the worse things are often entirely imaginary and you end up making yourself sit through hell for nothing. So where are all the good, nice things? Well, at least you'll get a colorful story out of the deal, to share with your friends and grandchildren by the time you're too old to care anymore.

Provided, of course, that you're still alive.

“Are you ready?”

Commander Serilon returns behind his desk, sits down, leans on his elbows, and gets comfortable.

The steady stare of his black eyes drills into me, hard and unreadable.

I shrug. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Very well. Then, my first question: are you now or have you ever been an enemy of the Nikéan state?”

6 : 234 : 09 : 49 : 13

A new morning, nice and crisp. Clear skies. A refreshing wind blows from the north, caressing my hair, cooling my face, and making my eyes water. It bears the damp, subtle smell of a storm brewing. Sephram and I march solemnly side-by-side across the vast plaza of Eternal Calm on the way to the royal district, and dubstep plays.

On the other side of the wall wallows a cloud of low-frequency magic noise, too far stretched and too old to belong to anything living. It’s like someone left a TV on in a back room and nothing but static comes out. Eighteen thousand years of raw grain at full volume. But it’s not a visual, or auditory experience. You need a sixth sense for the information realm to feel it, like I have, and the talent doesn’t make me feel privileged at all right now. Could somebody make the flies stop?

“Ow…” I shake my head and rub my temples.

“Hungover again?” Sephram asks me with a judgmental glance, blissfully ignorant to what I’m going through. “You should stop drinking. It’s not a very healthy hobby to have.”

“Thanks, dad,” I answer. “But my genius brain happens to consume a whole ton of energy to work its magic, and alcohol packs joules. So, as a matter of fact, purely from the cost-effectiveness point of view, it’s a pretty good deal for me. I barely even get drunk.”

“Human beings don’t work like that.”

“Also, unless someone did the Jesus to our well without my knowing, I’ve had nothing but non-alcoholic this week.” I look up at the wall again, and the robust gatehouse in the middle, built like a castle of its own. “No. This is something else.”

“Oh? Is that to say you didn’t go to the cabaret last night?”

“I went for an innocent late night stroll, to cool my head, get in the gear, and come up with a plan. Which I did. So, by all means, you should be singing my praises instead of looking for excuses to nag like a granny.”

“Which reminds me, when are you going to share the specifics of this great plan of yours? Because from where I’m looking, it appears as though you're heading straight for the gate. Which, as previously established, does not end well for the uninvited.”

The closer we get to the gatehouse the more nervous Sephram's starting to look. I know the feeling. But...

“What am I? An endless exposition machine? Show, don't tell. I’m simply going to ask you to trust me here and follow my lead. You’ll see soon enough.”

If I told him, he'd just run away.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Sephram says, “but you don’t make it very easy to trust you. Especially considering how you’ve been a field agent for the whole of one month. Of which you’ve spent maybe three hours actually doing any training.”

“Buddy, I was born ready,” I tell him. “I’m never gonna let you down. Like Rick Astley.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea who is Mr Astley. And must I remind you of the chaos you caused on the very night of your arrival, which very nearly cost us the whole operation?”

“That was...adjusting.”

“I sure hope your adjustments are done by now.”

The massive barbican stands right in front of us. It’s even thicker and taller than the wall it’s attached to, coated with small tiles of blue and gold all over. The gate itself is made up of two enormous halves of cast bronze, each over a meter thick. Those doors are too heavy to be opened and closed all the time, even with the aid of machinery, so they’re only closed for emergencies. The heavy portcullis is enough to keep the rabble out. It’s left just high enough above the ground to allow a grown man to pass under its fangs without hitting his head and they can drop it in a snap, if they need to.

Guards stand posted in a rigid grid in front of the gap. I count fourteen. Every man has a round copper shield and a spear, and a scimitar on the belt. Crimson clothes, scale vests, and helmets that look like overturned goblets. The face of each man is grim, and their eyes follow our approach with care.

Looking at the folks at Master Gunlau’s school, I’ve learned to measure a guy's mettle just by the way he stands, and I can tell these are some tough customers we're looking at. Well, not that guy in the back, far right. He must be an intern.

“Okay, here we go,” I whisper to Sephram. “Just hang back and let me take care of all the talking.”

“Not my first choice, really.”

“Wow, I’m not even going to grace that with a response.”

“You just did.”

“Play nice now, or I’m telling everyone at home you've put peter out to pasture.”

“What is wrong with you!?”

I can’t tell who’s in charge, since all these potheads look the same to me, so I go on to approach the nearest.

“Halt!” the sentry barks at me when I’m about eight meters away and knocks his spear against the floor. “Step no closer! The royal district is off-limits to civilians!”

I stop. Sephram stops as well, and by his expression, I can tell he doesn’t have much faith in my big plan.

But I can be professional too, when I have to be.

“Hi,” I tell the guard. “We have some important information we'd like to report to the Sultan's Sabers. Would you let us see your commanding officer?”

“What kind of information?”

Great, at least they’re willing to hear us out. Had he told us to piss off there on the spot, we would've been back to the drawing board.

Barely suppressing the evil grin about to take over my lips, I pretend to be an innocent, concerned civilian and drop the bomb,

“Information——on a plot to assassinate his majesty, the Sultan.”

Ooh, nailed it! Even if I say so myself.

The nearest guards exchange alarmed looks. I have their attention now. The next question is, will they want to hear more, or will they simply throw us in jail? Do they have the authority to decide that on the spot? No. This is about the Sultan’s life. Nobody in this town will take any chances with that. One of them leaves his post to ask for instructions.

With how volatile the situation is in the city, and the threat of war looming on the horizon, they can’t afford to dismiss any tips offhand, however far-fetched they may seem. We’re clearly foreigners, we might know something the standard voters don’t.

In a short while, the guard jogs back to us.

“Follow me.”

Sephram and I depart after the soldier and another four troops detach from the watch to escort us. Sandwiched between spears and shields, we pass under the portcullis and the shadow of the gatehouse, and just like that, we’re inside the royal district.

Well? Impressed yet?

Sephram aims a peripheral glance my way, a low-lidded, lightless dead man’s stare in his eyes.

“This was your plan…?” he mouths. “We’re never going to get out of here alive.”

“We’re halfway to success already,” I whisper back. “I’ll pump whoever is in charge for information. Meanwhile, Mr Map, try to guess where the vault could be.”

Relax, guys.

It’s going to go just great.

6 : 234 : 09 : 38 : 23

Most of the fabled royal district, the forbidden city inside a city, is nothing but air. A wide plaza takes up a solid third of the area. That plateau of stone may be handy for parades, but not that interesting to look at. I’m starting to see why they don’t let people in. Tourists would be asking for refunds by now.

On the other side of the stone desert rises a small mountain of white marble, a slightly more impressive sight. It's more like multiple big mansions packed closely together, the main palace in the very middle with its enormous gilded dome. That thing sure is huge. The building complex is like a post-modern wedding cake somebody put a flashy turban on. How does the dome even keep standing, technically, when it’s so top-heavy? The ancient builders were something else.

We cross the clearing and climb up wide stairs towards the palace entrance.

Don’t tell me they’re taking us to the head honcho himself? My plan is working even better than I dared to dream.

What do you think? Is it gonna be a skinny little kid, or a fat old guy?

I’m betting on the joke option: the Sultan is a cow, or a hen, or something really stupid. Would explain a LOT about this country.

My expectations are subverted when the guards pull a tight 90-degree-turn on the first landing. Instead of the main building, we head for the east wing that extends like a mutant arm out of the side of the palace. Apparently, that's where the guards have their base.

After ten minutes of more walking and stairs, Sephram and I end up quietly seated on a decorative bench in a long hallway, waiting for an officer of the guard to receive us.

It’s a nice bench. The upholstery is red velvet, the wooden frames carved to resemble gushing seawaves. It almost looks liquid, though it's wood. I don’t think I’ve ever planted my ass on something so pretty, or expensive. Would be a sin to let out gas now.

One guard is left to babysit us, while the others return to their posts at the gate, and then we wait.

He’s probably pretty busy, with the war and all—the guard commander, I mean.

How long do you think this is going to take? I hope not the whole day.

But gee, it’s so pretty here.

I take it back, what I said about there being nothing to see. Lots of small details. Real eye candy. A herringbone-style parquet, positively old and patinated. Beautiful little floral patterns run along the white tapestry on the walls. I have no idea what those fantasy flowers are. They’re not roses, I know that much.

Golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling. They have small phosphorescent crystals that absorb light during the day and start to glow when it gets darker. Richer cities and towns mine the same ore for their street lights and stuff, but these are of much higher quality, all immaculate white.

A crimson carpet with gold embroidery goes along the full length of the hallway. That is one long carpet. There’s not a speck of dust, or even cat hair on it. Someone must clean it every day. If that carpet could fly, you could take your whole extended family and friends on a trip together with you. It'd be a carpet train.

Next to our bench is a cute little drawer of dark wood with cabriole legs. A little worn on the corners, but mostly in mint condition. Wonder how old it is? Two hundred years? Three hundred? They just don’t make ‘em like they used to. If you took that to Pawn Stars, you might get two-fifty out of that deal, for real.

There’s also a delicate little oil lamp on the table with a brass leg.

It’s neat.

Your eye simply rests on those gentle lines.

“Uhhh, is this going to take much longer?” I ask the guard.

He doesn’t answer me. In fact, he won’t even look at me. He just stares off, clutching his spear like a toy soldier.

“You’re not allowed to talk on duty?” I ask him. “Like the King’s Guard? Wow, it must be hell. I can't even imagine. But hey, at least your hat’s not half as dumb.”

“…”

“But that one guy talked to me before, how come he could do that? He didn’t look any bigger or badder than the rest of you. What’s up with that? You’re not trying to trick me here, are you, Sam? Can I call you Sam? You know what, maybe you are allowed to talk, but you act like you aren’t, because you’re too shy to get your mouth open. My guy, this might be the last chance in your life to chat with a non-screaming female. Are you sure you want to let the opportunity slip by?”

“…”

“Oh, I get it. That other guy’s got dirt on you, don’t he? He’s got dirt on everybody, so they let him do what he wants? He can talk to tourists whenever he feels like it and pick up chicks, and the rest of you just have to stand there and watch. My word, what an assh—”

“—Your act’s slipping,” Sephram kindly reminds me with a nudge of his elbow.

I turn to him. “Holy pickled cheese sticks, Batman, this isn’t going to work. I didn’t think my plan would expect me to sit still for a small eternity.”

“It’s been nary ten minutes yet.”

“Ten minutes of my one and only life, flushed mid-session.”

“You just spent a month looking quite at ease doing nothing of value.”

“That was different. There were distractions. There was food, booze, and striptease. Which reminds me, where’s that harem I’ve heard so much about? I should check if the Sultan's a man of culture.”

“Zero,” Sephram calls my name with a particular weight, while gripping my thigh above the knee. “If you mess this up and get us both killed, I swear, I will haunt you as a wraith forever.”

Pretty dramatic, as threats go.

To honor my comrade’s everlasting commitment, I do my best to endure another ten minutes.

Fortunately, this personal hell doesn’t last much longer than that.

A door opens further down the corridor, and a tall man in a pricey black silk suit steps out. He’s brawnier than Sephram, probably older too, in his mid-forties or early fifties. He may be dressed for office, but he’s unmistakably a warrior underneath. Grayish buzz cut, dark features.

The man saunters composedly over and we stand up.

“Good day,” he greets us in a low bass voice. “My name is Serilon Tasser-Ic Varesté. I am the Vice Commander of the Palace Guard and Colonel of the Sultan’s Sabers. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The formerly mute guardsman steps forward. “Sir, these two claim to have information regarding a possible threat against His Heavenly Majesty.”

The officer looks at us anew and though his face is unchanged, the look in his dark eyes turns sharper.

“Is this true?”

“True as day,” I say. “And for speedy takers of our special offer, I can spoil the ending of Dune for no charge. One word: 'jihad'.”

Sephram groans quietly next to me, like he's trying to hide a stab wound. Vice Commander Serilon doesn’t get it. I guess he didn’t go see Part One. He knows better than to get into a franchise touched by a Canadian. That guy’s flicks run on way too long and put everyone to sleep. And I always talk too much when I get nervous.

“And your names are?” Serilon asks us.

“I’m Strew Barrington,” Sephram goes ahead with his rehearsed fake identity. “I am a trade agent from Arcadia, and moved here four years ago, to negotiate contracts on behalf of my western employer.”

Pfft.

“I see,” Vice Commander Serilon mouths. His poker face is better than mine. Or maybe he’s just a bad judge of character?

“And I’m the goddamn Cinderella,” I tell him.

Sephram makes noises like a steam train next to me. What? We never did come up with a proper fake identity for me. Not that I have a real name, or much of a real life to begin with. Any identity would be no less fake, so why waste effort spinning the yarn?

“I’m this guy’s sister,” I amend my statement. “I came by to help him with his business. The...lamps and carpets.”

Damn lame. Couldn’t he come up with anything more interesting to trade?

The offier’s face reveals nothing of what goes through his head.

“Before we go any further with this,” he says, “I must remind you two that spreading dishonest rumors, making groundless allegations, and giving false testimonies are viewed as criminal behavior in this land, and may earn you up to ten years in prison, depending on the case.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Oh, good to know.”

I really didn’t know that.

“Did you know that?” I ask Sephram.

“I did, actually,” the man claims.

“You knew that and you didn’t tell me?”

“Because you didn’t deign to share your intentions with me beforehand. A little focus, please, sister...?”

“But ten years? Damn. A little over the top for a prank, don’t you think?”

“There are things that aren’t to be trifled with,” Serilon says to me. “His Heavenly Majesty’s life for one. Now, here’s how we are going to do. I will interview the two of you separately in my office. While I speak with one, I must ask the other to wait out here in the hallway. We will begin with Lady Cinderella. Excuse us, Master Barrington.”

“Certainly,” Sephram grunts and nods, looking very stiff.

That guy really doesn’t trust me one bit, does he?

I follow after the Vice Commander into his office.

It’s an office to brag about, roomy and quiet. Gold shines everywhere you look—though it’s mostly gilded wood, not solid gold. The dressers, armoire doors, cupboards, everything’s meticulously engraved by hand. Even his work desk looks like something dug out from the tomb of a pharaoh. And that carpet, now there’s something to nap on.

“Have a seat,” Serilon says.

There are two cozy guest chairs set in front of the desk. I take the one closer to the lone window in the side wall. If things get hairy, maybe I can dive out and save myself, while they hack Sephram to pieces? Meanwhile, Mr Officer goes around the desk and takes out something from the corner drawer.

“A small precaution,” he tells me. “These are troubled times, and we receive numerous false tips on a daily basis. It necessitates the use of certain measures to discern the truth.”

He takes out what looks like a silver medallion and shows it to me.

“There is a certain enchantment on this medallion, which reveals whenever its bearer is being dishonest. I will need to put it on you, before we proceed with the interview. I trust that you are still willing?”

“How does it work?” I ask. “Will it blow off my head if I say a shapely ass is sexier than huge breasts, or is it okay if I really believe it’s true?”

Serilon pauses.

“...I suppose it only reacts to statements that you are personally aware are false,” he ponders. “I never really thought about it that deeply.”

“But it will blow off my head?”

“No, it will only give a little jolt. Just enough a reaction to tell if you are being truthful. These are simple devices.”

“Okay. Just checking.”

Serilon puts the medallion around my neck.

The clasp closes with a light click that has an unnerving vibe of finality to it. It’s surprisingly heavy too. The chain’s long enough that I could pull it off over my head whenever, but I guess doing that would be the same as admitting I’m full of shit.

I’ll just have to grin and bear it.

The Vice Commander returns to his seat opposite of me.

“Are you ready?” he asks and crosses his fingers.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The man nods. “Very well. Then, my first question: are you now or have you ever been an enemy of the Nikéan state?”

Wow, what a curveball. I come here as a concerned citizen expressing a heartfelt desire to help, and he would immediately assume I’m up to no good? Suppose he’d have to make sure.

“That would be a no,” I answer.

Nothing happens. Of course. I actually am here to do you a big favor, dumbass!

“Then,” Serilon moves on without batting an eye, “is Cinderella your real name?”

“You bet your ass it is——GAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

A high-voltage current shoots down my spine and fills the bones in my limbs with blinding light. An unspeakable pain rends my nerves, like having a red hot iron rod stuck up the butt, while tiny needles are dragged through the spasming neural pathways. All my muscles cramp at the same time, and I very nearly wet myself on the spot.

Fortunately, it only lasts for a second.

The agony soon subsides and there’s no serious physical damage done. But the memory of the pain lingers long after.

I gasp for air, leaning on the edge of the table.

“A little...jolt...?”

“I find your readiness to lie somewhat disconcerting,” Vice Commander Serilon remarks, narrowing his gaze. “So is there a good reason you do not want your real name to be known?”

“There are...reasons.”

“Is it true then, that his majesty is being targeted?”

“It’s true,” I answer and grit my teeth.

There’s no shock. Because what I’m saying is perfectly factual. But the officer still shows no surprise.

“Well, he is the head of a very troubled country. It would be stranger if none out there wished ill upon him.”

“It’s worse than that,” I tell him.

“How so?”

“They plan to attack the palace tomorrow. Unless we do something about it, the Sultan is a goner. And so is this whole country.”

“And who are ‘they’?”

“...”

How do I answer that?

If I tell the truth and say the Kingdom orchestrated the plot, it will only add fuel to the fire. There’s no way these guys would ever agree to a truce if they knew. Which would mean critical mission failure for me. I’ll have to somehow downplay Alberion's involvement without getting zapped again.

“A guy called Maohen,” I say. “Ever heard?”

Serilon’s expression darkens again.

“Even if you believe this to be true, that doesn’t make it so,” he says. “Maohen Tyuan-Hé is a coward. He would not start a civil war while Nikéa is threatened by foreign powers. Without our protection, he and his gang would be nothing.”

“Well, that’s just the thing. He doesn’t believe you guys stand a chance in the war, so he’s cast his lot with the winning team. If he delivers them the Sultan’s head, they might make him the new king of the hill.”

“And how do you know this, exactly?”

“I overheard the man himself.”

“You overheard Maohen Tyuan-Hé talk about his plan to kill the Sultan in broad daylight? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Technically, it was night time. But he wasn’t hiding it too well, that’s for sure.”

Serilon leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “This is outrageous.”

“But I’m not lying, as your magic trinket proves.”

“And you said they will make their move tomorrow?”

“That’s right. I don’t know what he plans to do, precisely, but one way or the other, he’s going to mess you guys up. And by the time shit hits the fan, you’re going to wish you had listened to me.”

“Why tell us?” Serilon asks. “Why is a foreigner so concerned about what happens in this land? The western nations have been only too happy to turn a blind eye to our struggles thus far. What do you have to gain by warning us and risking the cartel’s wrath and vengeance in the effort?”

“Why, I’m doing this only out of the goodness of my golden hearAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH——!”

Somehow, the shock feels even worse than the first time.

I slam my forehead on the desk as the pain finally lets up.

“Gods...damn it…”

Looks like I let my guard down a little too soon.

“So you have ulterior motives, Ms Cinderella?” Vice Commander Serilon remarks. “Could you kindly explain further?”

“Look, buddy. It’s super complicated, you wouldn’t get—HAHAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGH!”

How the fuck would you even define that!?

This shit’s broken! And I’m legit gonna hurl. Oh-my-god!

“...Okay. So maybe it’s really simple, in reality,” I try again when I manage to resume breathing. “Maybe it was only my way of thinking that was unnecessarily convoluted. But you have to believe me: I may not be giving you the whole truth here, but that's only because I don’t want things to get even worse than they already aEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH—!”

“Are you doing that on purpose...?” Serilon asks.

Ahahaha! It hurts so much I'm actually starting to enjoy it! In a very, very sick way.

I just can’t be honest with myself can I?

“Give me a sec...”

I need to sort this out in my own head first.

Okay, fine!

So maybe my motives weren’t entirely pure and selfless! Not even by half. No, I don’t actually care at all if the Sultan lives or dies. Maybe my primary motivation in coming here was to pick up a valuable thing or two on the way to the core, and go home with a foxy brown concubine. But having naughty thoughts and actually acting on them too are different things, and it's not always a good thing to be too honest. If I happen to stop a war and save a lot people on the side, then what does it matter what else I was thinking?

Is it so wrong to have dreams!?

Now what? Is there any way I can still redeem my credibility in the guard officer's eyes?

I have to consider my next words with special care…

——BAM!

At that moment, the door is kicked in. In barges our friend Sephram with a bleeding lip, clutching the sentry’s spear in his hands.

For a few muted beats, we’re stuck staring at each other like a bunch of round-eyed reindeer about to get run over by the Coke truck on Christmas eve. It’s one of those moments when you really wish you had the power to turn back time. But, as always, the clock keeps ticking.

“What are you doing!?” I yell at my disoriented colleague. “Did you kill the guard? What the hell!? Talk about random!”

“I came to rescue you!” Sephram yells back at me. “Weren’t you being tortured? I heard you screaming your head off through the door!”

“Gods, Strew!” I pull off the medallion and turn to him. “I was trying my hardest to convert General Chad here to our cause! Now you’ve gone and ruined it! And I—I wasn’t ‘screaming my head off’! They were very soulful expressions of agony!”

“You mean, there was no torture?”

“No! Well, yes. Maybe, in a way. Depends on the perspective. But consent was asked! And now my excruciating pain is for nothing! Thanks to you, Mr White Knight!”

“I...uh, I had no idea.”

Great. Now what?

Now we start improvising.

I turn back to the guard commander and flash a friendly smile.

“Change of plans, cupcake. Do you want to be an ally of justice? Yes or no?”

“Who are you people?” Serilon asks, looking very alarmed and less than cooperative.

“B-BZZZT! Wrong answer! Now you get to put this on.” I toss the medallion to him over the table. “You’ll answer a few questions for me, and depending on how I like the answers, you may or may not get bumped off by my trigger-happy friend here.”

The man grips the medallion in his fist, fire in his eyes. “You will not get away with this.”

I undo my cosmetic camo and kick the desk between us, disintegrating it with a Shockwave emitted from my foot. The furniture explodes up to the ceiling, and as tiny fragments of splintered wood quietly rain down about us, I tell him again,

“Put the trinket on, Jack. Don’t make me ask a second time, because bullying ethnic minorities doesn’t look right on the resume these days.”

With great reluctance, Serilon puts on his damned medallion. Meanwhile, Sephram drags the guard he beat up into the room, so the carpet-cleaner wouldn’t trip on the body. Still, it’s only a matter of time before we’re found out.

I should make the most of it.

“Okay,” I make up my mind and turn to the officer. “My first question is, which is objectively sexier; huge breasts or a shapely ass?”

“You are...completely insane,” Serilon tells me.

Somehow, he doesn’t get zapped.

“Well, you said it yourself. Even if you believe that, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.”

“If there is one thing that’s true,” he pronounces, “it’s this: you will not leave this place alive.”

“As I was saying,” Sephram adds from the background.

I ignore him.

“Excellent intonation,” I praise Serilon’s performance. “I got chills. You’ve impressed me. Question number two: should bands that change more than two members in their lineup still be allowed to make music under the same name, or is that ripping off the fanbase?”

“Zero...” Sephram is giving me that look again.

“Oh yeah, also—do you know any way into the ancient ruins under the palace? The super old ones, made by the Gods. I don’t mind which question you answer, as long as we get answers.”

“...”

Serilon maintains his silence. But I can tell, by the slight glint in his eyes, that there’s a bell ringing back there. We have a bingo. Maybe I am getting better at playing these mind games?

“Hey, I know you know.” I lean forward and press the guy. “And unless you start playing with me here, I have very little reason not to blast your brain all over that wall, save my appreciation for the tapestry, and pity for the janitor.”

“…”

“By the way, we’re the good guys in this story. You can trust us!”

“…”

“I can even put on the medallion and say that again, if you want.”

“…”

“Seriously, give it back here.”