DO THE STARS SING OUT?

Site-STAR’s Official Dossier

WELCOME TO SITE-STAR :D

Don’t you wish Massachusetts was real

hey I’m Washington’s son and I have a message for you

To: Mr. Samuel Seabury

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

rebloggkng this here!

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

rebloggkng this here!

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

“Oh, none of the above. I am an anomaly, myself — marked with the number ████ , to be precise.” [████ tipped their head and smiled more amusedly — how funny it was to them that “anomaly” was seen as a derogatory phrase! Clearly, they weren’t born into the anomalous world.]

Margaret’s brows arched, her interest piqued. “Marked, are you?” she murmured, the smile tugging back at her lips. “Then we are kin of a kind. Not accidents, not mistakes—merely… inconvenient truths the world does not know how to name.”

Margaret’s expression sharpened, a flicker of something like recognition crossing her features. “SCP…” she echoed, the strange syllables rolling off her tongue like a curse. “So the world has built its ledgers of the unnatural. How quaint—naming anomalies as though that tames them.”

“…I understand that. Though, some anomalous areas — such as the forest where naming could spell death take this rule much more seriously. The tree’s home that is aforementioned and its unnamed entities within had their names stolen, killed even.”

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

rebloggkng this here!

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

“Oh, none of the above. I am an anomaly, myself — marked with the number ████ , to be precise.” [████ tipped their head and smiled more amusedly — how funny it was to them that “anomaly” was seen as a derogatory phrase! Clearly, they weren’t born into the anomalous world.]

Margaret’s brows arched, her interest piqued. “Marked, are you?” she murmured, the smile tugging back at her lips. “Then we are kin of a kind. Not accidents, not mistakes—merely… inconvenient truths the world does not know how to name.”

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

rebloggkng this here!

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

Margaret let out a soft, chiming laugh that held no warmth. “An anomaly,” she repeated, savoring the word. “How delicately put. Not ghost, not woman, not corpse—just a puzzle in your tidy little world.”

“Oh, none of the above. I am an anomaly, myself — marked with the number ████ , to be precise.” [████ tipped their head and smiled more amusedly — how funny it was to them that “anomaly” was seen as a derogatory phrase! Clearly, they weren’t born into the anomalous world.]

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

rebloggkng this here!

Margaret’s eyes flicked toward the newcomer, her expression never wavering, though her smile took on a sharper edge.

“I see you’re awake. Do you remember how you got here?”

Margaret stirred faintly, her lips parting as if pulling words up from the grave itself. Her eyes fluttered slightly, still clouded with the haze of death’s lingering touch, and she whispered, voice cracked but stubbornly alive:

“Oh! Of course,” John looked taken aback, fumbling awkwardly with the tray of tea for a moment before he set it on the bedside table. “Yes, I’ll get you a blanket right away.”

Margaret let out a low, brittle laugh, the sound more like glass breaking than mirth. She drew the quilt around her shoulders, fingers clutching it like an actress with her final curtain.

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it when no words came to his mind. After a moment he finally managed, “You’re a poet. How charming. It seems correct to say you’ve been through enough to craft a good tragedy.”

Margaret watched him with a slow, knowing smile as his lips brushed her hand. Her fingers didn’t curl around his as warm flesh should, but hung delicate and still, as though they might shatter under the wrong pressure.

Margaret’s laugh was soft, silvery, but it carried no warmth. She let her hand sink into the quilt as though tucking it into a coffin.

At her words, he looked in alarm at his hand, wondering if touching the odd, clearly supernatural stranger had been a mistake. He’d carried her up to the guest room, but he hadn’t contacted skin.

Margaret tilted her head, amused by his floundering. The candlelight caught on her skin again, that too-perfect pallor that seemed carved rather than born. She drew the quilt higher around her shoulders, though it was clear warmth did not touch her.

Margaret’s expression flickered—something between amusement and faint disappointment. She let out a soft breath that could have been a laugh.

Margaret’s lips curved, this time into something softer, almost human. “Ah… so you would stitch me into music,” she said, her voice low, thoughtful. “Better than the silence they wrapped me in.” Her gaze lingered on his grin, studying it as though it were more fragile than her own porcelain hands.

Margaret’s eyes gleamed, her cold composure touched by a flicker of delight. “Immortality,” she echoed, savoring the word. “Then we are alike, Major—you through ink and melody, I through… whatever stubborn force plucked me back from silence.”

André’s hand flew forward without thought and he gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Try not to move too much. You were quite ill when I found you.”

Margaret sank obediently back into the pillows, though her eyes never left him. His words seemed to amuse her, curling a faint smile onto her lips.

Margaret regarded him with a faint tilt of her head, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Friends,” she repeated, as though tasting the word. “That would be a novelty, Major. Most only see me as omen or corpse.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, though her smile still carried that haunting edge. “A plaything of a god…” she echoed, her voice lilting, almost musical. “Then perhaps you and I are both toys in the same divine hand. You chase immortality in song, I in survival. Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves anymore.”

André paled at her words. “Neither of us belongs wholly to ourselves? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Is this a prophecy, Margaret? I’m afraid I’m no plaything of a god. I’m one amongst his many creations that must work to climb to immortality, and even then, I could only hope to achieve it through parchment and ink.”

Margaret let him draw the quilt back over her, her eyes following his every movement with an unsettling stillness. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tender, though threaded with something darker.

André leaned away, a shiver crawling down his spine. He watched her unblinking stillness, some childish terror whispering in his ear. But monsters weren’t real.

Margaret’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as though she had been waiting for that admission. “Terrifying?” she echoed, voice smooth as silk. “Then I’ve done my part well. What is a tale worth, Major, if it doesn’t leave the listener shivering?”

rebloggkng this here!

It still hurts somehow

Plot Information ;

An urgent message for the King!

…I am not even going to question how you know that

Hello my love. Some people have expressed their suspicious. Towards Lord North. I'm just checking if everything is okay. With you. Where are you?

To His Majesty King George the Third,

That is… very true, but we wouldn’t have took him away. Simply would have warned him — that is if he hadn’t already found them, my liege!

…?

Haha what nooo I don’t have any capabilities 😅 I used a piece of tech tied to my fate

Anomalous tech is… still anomalous, good sir! [Apologies for Dr. ███’s overzealous nature. They’re… not okay right now, I do wonder what’s going on with them. I shan’t ask, I suspect it’s classified.]