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And once again the topic of the Aspis Consortium comes up. In Pathfinder, the Aspis Consortium is a collection of wealthy but ruthless merchants, slavers, and thieves all having the goal of increasing their profit and status by any means necessary. Theyâre everything wrong with capitalism and wanton greed made manifest, right down to spending a relatively tiny fraction of their wealth on charity and other efforts to improve their image and conceal their wrongdoing.
It only makes sense, to the chagrin of all who know their true nature, that the organization persists into the far future of Starfinder. Whether there is a direct line of connection between the two iterations or someone was inspired by records of the original is ultimately a non-factor. What is important is that theyâll do anything to make a buck, exploiting anyone and stealing anything to make ends meet. Itâs actually a bit of an in-joke that there is a class of specifically Aspis-made weapon in the setting, the Serpent Laser, that technically has better average damage than a laser weapon of the same level, but is so grotesquely inefficient that it drains the battery in 2 shots, all so the Consortium could sell more batteries to mercenary companies and their own rank and file agents and thugs.
But today weâre not looking at the rank and file. Weâre looking at an archetype for those with the brains and the charm to plan all sorts of misdeeds and tricks and bullshit their way out of repurcussions. I speak of course of the Aspis Mastermind archetype.
To be clear, this archetype is available outside of working for the consortium, both with those with their own criminal enterprises and those that use their skills in a more noble, Robin Hood-esque fashion, but the core of this archetype is setting up plans ahead of time and being brilliant deceivers as well.
While this archetype does have elements taken from the Aspis Agent prestige class in Pathfinder, keen-eyed readers will also note that this option borrows very heavily from the mastermind archetype for investigators, which makes a lot of sense.
So letâs give it a look, shall we?
As aggressive businesspersons, these brilliant minds are of course skilled in their chosen profession and at browbeating others into going along with their schemes and behavior, even able to adjust the result of such intimidation to last longer, leave less hurt feelings, or to linger as minor dread for later exploitation.
Where they really excel, however, is coaching their allies and minions to perform actions at their signal rather than on their own initiative, setting up their master plan. However, that does require them to actually have a plan, choosing the action ahead of time. Such actions might be aiming a sniper weapon, providing covering fire, create a distraction, slip free of bonds, manipulate objects, and anything else non-harmful that the GM allows for, for that nice cinematic feel of a master planner triggering the right actions at the right time when needed.
They are also gifted at lying through their teeth, pretending to have no knowledge or involvement in any illegal or untoward activities that may have happened in their proximity or by the actions of known associates, giving them opportunities by assuaging the suspicions of their foes and the authorities. In fact, they can even spend resolve to conceal their involvement in outright hostile actions, implicating others by disguising the source of the attack.
Later on, their cinematic ability to direct and coach others becomes even more cinematic as the player no longer has to specify what action they coach their allies on, letting them take any action on the list or GM-approved when triggered by the mastermind. Whatâs more, the inspiring brilliance of these tricksters bolsters the vigor of the coached individual, granting them a reserve of temporary vitality when they carry through their part in the plan.
This is a fun archetype for a character trying to be the face of the party with a heaping helping of the Magnificent Bastard trope. Naturally envoys, witchwarpers, and the occasional operative have the key ability score and/or skill set most directly suited for this sort of character, but donât discount other classes here. Brilliant mechanics or biohackers with dastardly creations, combat classes sporting tactical genius and a mercenary mind, and of course mages of all descriptions can make use of this archetype quite easily. Regardless of the form they take, however, what remains true is their utility in tricking foes and setting up carefully laid ambushes and master plans.
I feel like there are two things to consider with this archetype. The first thing is actually making them feel like a genius, and that requires collaboration on the part of both GM and player. First, the player cannot be incurious or take things at face value. They have to ask questions, look for details, weaknesses, vantage points, exploits in social and physical systems, and so on. Naturally, the GM has to be willing and able to provide those details. How does a mastermind sneak the party into the building? You may have to provide answers for guard or employee schedules, security systems, what kind of fast food an executive insists on getting on Tuesdays rather than make use of the services of his 5-star chef, and so on.
The other thing is to establish and understand up front the difficulties of the heist story structure in a tabletop format. Thereâs an unwritten rule or understanding in heist stories in fiction that if the plan is shown to the audience, itâs going to fail, and if itâs not shown to the audience, it will succeed. Because telling the audience exactly whatâs going to happen and it just goes off without a hitch only works in suspense stories where the question isnât what is going to happen, but when will it, and how will things turn out as a result. But in a game, you kinda have to explain what your plan is to the other players (and the GM) to actually have a plan in the first place. So the GM has to figure out what parts to introduce hiccups at, and how to handle if things go south, potentially having a prison break scene or the like in the wings in case things go tits up (assuming you donât have a foregone conclusion secretly in mind. Donât let them know though, keep the suspense.)
The thought of kidnapping the mortal avatar of the Wise Sage is utterly insane by most metrics. Not only are they beloved by the people and heavily guarded, but such an act would surely bring down the wrath of the divine on the perpetrators. But one such team, led by weapons dealer Angelar Krodd, is willing to try to break the peace the planet has been under and make a mint selling weapons to every side of the fractured nations that would surely result.
The corporations have come to the vlaka colony world of Hope, greedy for the many natural resources that have been discovered there. As a frontier world, the reach of the Stewards doesnât go out that far, and so the companies are willing to lie, cheat, steal, and murder to get what they want, pulling in agents capable of elaborate plans to get what they want, but the vlaka arenât going to just roll over for these corporations, and have assets of their own, particularly in goodwill with other planets and organizations.
Establishing himself as a wealthy foreign noble with a line of credit too bottomless to be subjected to the normal treatment of foreigners on the despotic world of Onctora, Ven Kobis has come to such an unpleasant and oppressive place with only one goal: tear itâs government down in itâs entirety. He does this not out of some heroic nobility and love of freedom, but because he wants the Great Authority, whom he knew personally once, to suffer like no mortal ever has.
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Scene expansion from episode 27 of the Live and Let Fly podcast. 3809 words. Read on Ao3.
The wind on the mountain was cold enough to burn. Roland Mons Gelidus narrowed his eyes and tucked his muzzle into his scarf as he surveyed the horizon. Dusk approached and the sky was a freezing cobalt, the dying sun sinking rapidly out of sight. Behind him trailed nine other vlakas, breaking through the snowdrifts in single file.Â
Their journey was tethered by constant contact. Thick pelts of moon and ice, shot through with the bleak blue black of the darkening sky, brushed, connected, parted and met again as they trudged along. It wasnât a time for speaking, conserving energy for the hike through silence and stilled hands, but each knew how the others felt about their trek. Heads ducked and ears flattened against the chill, emotions sparked between their fur like static in the cold, dry air. The scent of their nerves and exhaustion swirled on the wind.Â
The Lajok wilderness in early spring was a dangerous beauty. Its stillness couldnât be trusted; every motionless mountainside held the promise of an avalanche, every too quiet night the careful inhale before a snowstorm. Soaring peaks of sheer gray stone funneled the pack into a saddle between them, the boughs of spruce and fir offering sparse shelter from the elements. As Roland studied their formations, heavy with ice crystals as they grew into the unforgiving wind, he wondered if he, too, would freeze in a bizarre shape if he stood still for too long. Even in spring, the cold was enough to sting his eyes and crust his eyelashes with frost, the air so frigid it hurt to breathe.
He turned to face his traveling companions. âItâs getting dark,â he said, signing as he spoke. âLetâs find a spot to camp.â
The Lajok Leadership Academy had dropped Roland and his squad in The Space Between approximately twelve hours ago, leaving them with nothing but basic survival essentials and their thick woolen uniform coats. Their assignment was simple: make it back to campus alive. Roland had been excited by the challenge in the beginning, stepping forth as he often did to take charge, as none had officially been assigned as squad leader. Finally, a chance to test themselves in a real life scenario, something he had hungered for after the negligible stakes of so many simulations and exercises.
Roland knew it would take all of them working together to survive the task. Each member of their squad had a unique set of skills and experiences to lend to the collective whole. This particular group he was quite close to; all third year classmates of his, all with intrinsic knowledge of each otherâs strengths and weaknesses. Where Kedric lacked orienteering skills, Alyn covered him, and where Alyn struggled with trapping, Hoyt covered her, and so on.Â
He rapidly grew disillusioned as he hiked through the snow, realizing that their wilderness assignment was simply beleaguering a point. It was all very pedestrian to him, a lesson taught time and time again since the moment he was born. Cooperation is key, no man is an island, and only a team succeeds. It was inherent to any vlaka anywhere on the planet, an interdependence ingrained in every facet of their society.
Roland knew they shouldnât be in their third year at the Academy and still learning something so elementary. He hadnât enrolled to learn teamwork. He was here to learn leadership, and he was beginning to suspect the Lajok definition of leadership was just another way to keep vlakas like him planetside.
As the group dispersed to set up camp, a familiar touch on Rolandâs elbow drew him out of his thoughts. At his side was Zuri, a deafblind squadmate he often defaulted to as his deputy. If we keep this pace, they signed, we should reach Lajok in three daysâ time.
âThank you, Zuri,â Roland replied aloud, taking their paw in his and signing his words against their palm. âHow are the others faring? Have you noticed anything I should take note of?â
Their eyes, pale pink and wandering, couldnât see Roland as they conversed, their expressive ears unable to pick up the cadence and timbre of his voice, but Roland knew they understood the intention behind his words better than most. Zuri gathered it in his scent, the pressure of his touch, even the resonance of his footfalls. It was a much needed reassurance, to have someone by his side who not only understood what he meant when his words failed him, but could also mediate between others just as successfully. They had an extrasensory talent for understanding others, as if they could smell the very words their emotions translated to.
So far so good, Zuri signed, though some think we should press on through the night. The Space Between in early spring makes them uneasy. They want to be back within the cityâs rings as quickly as possible.
Rolandâs snout wrinkled with disagreement. âI told everyone it would be unwise to push ourselves,â he stressed. âWe know how to survive in an austere environment, and we wonât come to harm if we take the journey slowly and carefully. Who is saying this?â
Zuri offered a small, sympathetic smile as Roland expressed his concerns into their paw. Skinner and his usual clique, they signed back. Just something to keep an eye on. You know how he can get.
Roland did know how he could get. Gaius Skinner Valens, who went by Skinner amongst his squadmates, was often at odds with Roland Mons Gelidus. He was an irascible, opinionated vlaka whose headstrong leadership style clashed with Rolandâs thoughtful, meticulous approach. Troubled, he turned his gaze to the horizon again. The temperatures would drop from dangerous to deadly come nightfall, and they couldnât afford to lose a single vlaka if they were to survive the journey. Something to keep an eye on, indeed. Perhaps he should speak to Skinner early before this came to a head.
For now, camp setup took priority. Starting a fire, thawing provisions, and divvying rations was the simpler matter, while the majority of the groupâs efforts went toward excavating a snow trench to shelter against the elements. Tempers in the camp were tense but subdued, packmates conversing through low whuffs and tactile signing. Occasionally, a brief spat broke out and dissipated in moments - a harmless vent of anxiety.
Regardless of what their opinions might be, everyone contributed to the chore, tolerating Rolandâs hovering. While he was confident in the squadâs ability to survive in The Space Between, the unpredictable spring weather made him nervous, and monitoring the particulars helped him maintain a sense of control. Thankfully, he had Zuri to soften things when his orders came out unintentionally abrasive.Â
He took his own turn clearing out the trench, his paw pads stinging with cold. He could hear his own labored breathing and the howling wind as he worked, but underneath that was the faint nocturnal call of birds, the sparse patter of prey animal feet. If Lajokâs smallest creatures could survive out here, so could they. Not to mention dozens of lone vlakas survive in The Space Between year round, doing whatever it is they do beyond the city walls. Roland and his classmates had survived their adolescent journeys through the wilderness in valai, after all.
His breath clouded the air as he appraised the work, questioning himself. This was no longer valai, though. And they were no longer children.
As he contemplated this, his ears picked up the low tones of a grumbled conversation. A short distance away, Skinner huddled with a few of his friends, paws jammed in his coat pockets. Even without signing his words, his scent was enough to convey his dissatisfaction. It stained the bitter wind with a thick yellow anxiety.Â
â...Wasting time out here digging ditches,â Roland heard him mutter. âHeâs going to get us all killed.â
âIâm sorry, Skinner,â Roland interjected, brushing snow from his palms. âIf thereâs something youâre concerned about, please do tell me.â
The other vlaka scoffed at the interruption, turning from his huddle with a reproachful look. His eyes were the same ice blue as frost in moonlight. âOh, now he knows thereâs a problem,â he sneered.
Roland had no idea what Skinner meant. If he was so bothered by making camp here, why hadnât he said something about it earlier? Zuri told him Skinner was uneasy, but this level of hostility was unexpected. âI⌠apologize,â Roland said, âI was unaware you had a grievance. If you have input that would better serve the group, Iâd love to hear it.â
âDonât play ignorant. I didnât say anything because I knew youâd only pretend to listen,â Skinner snapped back. âThen youâd just go on ahead and do what you were planning on doing anyway. Tyrant.â As he spoke, the two other vlakas with him reflected his attitude, shifting their weight from foot to foot and raising their hackles.
Roland exhaled heavily through his nose. He really tried with Skinner. Even if he didnât like him, he still respected him for his boldness. When it came to making quick, decisive action, he was the best of them, and Roland had full confidence he would make an excellent battle tactician someday. Matters of caution didnât suit him, however, and he became agitated at anything that made him wait. He should have expected opposition from the likes of him.
Skinnerâs coat, streaked with indigo, bristled as he continued. âThe longer we wait out here, the more we risk getting injured or worse. We donât have enough rations for a three day trip. Weâre practically buried in snow. Spring is here, Roland. What if thereâs an avalanche?â He gestured to the nearby mountainside, where its sheer face hung heavy with snow.Â
Work around the camp ground to a halt as their raised voices drew the othersâ attention. Roland caught movement in his periphery, but it was only Zuri, signing to ask a squadmate what was going on. Though Skinner and Roland were only verbally disagreeing, the deaf members could read lips well enough to gather the dispute. Uneasiness rippled through the pack, their fear scent betraying an erosion of faith.
Roland scowled. The name calling was a little juvenile, but he had heard worse. Sowing discord among the squad he wouldnât stand for. He cut his eyes to Tiber, a classmate whose wilderness skills he trusted the most. âIs there risk of an avalanche?â he asked, signing out the words along with his question.Â
Tiber studied the mountainside carefully, checking her own work, then gave a reticent shake of her head. âSnowpacks look stable, no recent displacement, still too early for rapid melting,â she responded, also signing. âThereâs risk, but itâs low.â
Her words confirmed aloud the reasoning in his head. If the choice was between an avalanche, which might kill them, and subzero temperatures, which most definitely would, he was picking the avalanche.Â
Roland turned a justified stare on his opposition, hoping the public address of Skinnerâs concerns would be enough to quell the squadâs anxieties. âPardon me, Skinner, if I trust the words of our most experienced mountaineer over yours,â he said, unable to keep the disdain from his tone.
Skinner rolled his eyes. âTheyâll say whatever you want to hear because they know youâll walk all over them if they donât,â he said. âI should be leading this squad, not you. Everyone agrees.â
Did they? Roland wanted to pass a glance at his pack to verify, but he forced himself to hold eye contact with Skinner, even as doubt stormed his heart.
âThis is challenging for all of us,â he shot back. âItâs going to be a hard couple of days. If youâre afraid, just admit it.â He meant it without malice, but like many things he said, it came out insultingly. âWeâll get through it together.â
âAfraid?â Skinner repeated. His tail lashed with agitation. âThe only thing Iâm afraid of is your stupidity. Iâm putting an end to this.â He took a challenging step forward, eyes bright and alert. âDuel me. Winner takes charge of the assignment.â
The gall! Roland bared his teeth. âIâm not fighting you, Skinner,â he snarled, âhave you lost your senses?â
The hot, impulsive side of him wanted desperately to accept the challenge. Prove his capability, vent his aggression, and put an end to this ridiculous argument all at once, so they could get back to more important matters.
Roland swallowed back the growl in his throat. He shared Skinnerâs fear of dying, out here in the Lajok wilderness where the elements leached the very life from your blood, but it was eclipsed by a something greater. The onus of their survival rest upon his leadership. If anyone succumbed to cold, hunger, exhaustion, or injury based on his decisions, it would be no different than if heâd killed them with his own two paws.
He couldnât risk hurting a packmate, no mater how badly he wanted to. He held his ground. The other vlakas flanking Skinner shifted indecisively, and all around them the temperatures continued to fall.Â
Skinner was dauntless. Steam and fear scent rising from his body, he showed no indication of backing down. âI thought youâd say that, coward,â he spat. âIt always has to be your way, on your terms.â He pointed defiantly at Roland. âIâm not letting you dig your heels in this time. You arenât fit to lead this troop. Step down. I wonât say it again.â
Roland was beginning to gather that this stemmed from more than just the present situation, but he couldnât examine how many times he might have unintentionally slighted the other man that very instant. âThese are unacceptable terms-â he tried to protest, and Skinner charged him.
Reflex kicked in and he ducked, unable to fully dodge the claws aimed at his face. The blow came first and then the pain, a stinging, hot gash that ripped down the length of his snout.Â
He clapped a paw to his muzzle and staggered back. The scent of his blood drenched the air, soaking through his fur and spattering scarlet on the snow. If he hadnât moved in time, Skinner could have taken out one of his eyes. Panting, he felt a growl vibrating his chest, his nervous system flooding with the instinct to defend himself.
âCalm yourself, man!â Roland barked, both to himself and the opposition. Skinner was already preparing for another attack, his lithe body low and stanced to strike.Â
As Roland braced himself, the pack surged around him, forming a barrier between him and Skinner. Backed up against him was Zuri, as vicious as he had ever seen them, teeth bared, hackles on end, head ducked and ears pinned against their skull. The others snarled and snapped at Skinner, scolding him for disrupting the order of the pack. It was a chastisement beyond words, coming from a primal place before the vlaka had developed language.
Roland was stunned. Both at Skinnerâs audacity and the loyalty of his squadmates. He was tempted to resist their protection, to order them to step aside, to tell them this wasnât their fight. But enveloped as he was by the animal congruence of his team, he allowed their support to wash over him. He realized, with a tiny thrill of vindication, that the pack took Skinnerâs challenge as a threat to them all. A leader spoke for the group and the group spoke for him. His successes were their successes, his failures their failures. His squad would not stand for hostility from a wolf who would rather endanger them than trust their collective capability.
Skinner backed off, breathing hard, as his brethren rebuked him. He flicked his eyes questioningly to his usual supporters, but even they were unwilling to take his side against the rest of the squad. Fear and fury billowed off him and curled into the frozen sky; Roland could smell his humiliation even from behind the resolute wall of his squadmates. Skinner let out a snarl and set off, disgraced, away from camp.
âSkinner, wait!â Roland called, watching the indigo coat lose itself amidst the pines and snowdrifts. He tried to shoulder past his team to pursue him, but Zuri caught his arm.
Let him go, they signed, their hand motions quick and sharp with their remaining agitation. You canât get yourself killed going after him. We need you here.
As much as he hated to admit it, they were right. If he ventured into the polar darkness, he was just as foolish as Skinner. All the bravado and self assurance left him in a rush and he took a step back, reeling from what had just happened. Blood dripped from his wound, glittering rubies congealing in the snow.
The phalanx dispersed, his packmates murmuring and signing amongst themselves. One of them offered Roland a clean cloth, which he gratefully pressed against his muzzle until the bleeding stopped. Though the cuts stung, resentment found no purchase in his heart as he stared at the place where Skinner had fled. The squad finished digging out their shelter and turned to other matters: eating and drinking, checking their paws for blisters, patching over minor injuries, wrapping hands and taping feet to protect against the next dayâs strenuous hike. As night swallowed them, they huddled against the deadly temperatures inside the snow trench.
Roland posted himself at the entrance, watching the darkness, an anxious, guilty dread gnawing at his chest. Ordinarily, he would take this downtime to check on everyone, but the habit escaped him as he stewed in his emotions. He was furious with himself for allowing the argument to happen, for letting it escalate to violence, for losing a member of the team. It didnât matter that he had successfully avoided a fight. If Skinner died out there, it was Rolandâs fault.
He pressed his shoulder against the cold trench wall, listening to his companions slumbering at his back. He talked himself down from searching for Skinner over and over again, and as he did so his gaze wandered heavenward. Cradled by the mountains, away from the light and haze of the capital city, the night sky was a sprawling, starlit invitation. Roland found himself momentarily breathless, entranced by the glimmering cosmic expanse above him. There were entire worlds beyond the Vast, mere pinpoints of light from his small, insignificant vantage on Lajok.
Why he was doing this? Attending the academy, honing his leadership, striving for achievement - it all felt so meaningless under the infinite sky. The Circle of Lajok only fought amongst themselves, wasting time deciding what was best for the planet while Sota continued to die. Did his dispute with Skinner portend his future? Was their assignment supposed to teach him acceptable loss? This couldnât be the life he was meant for, to lead his people confidently to their end.Â
Rest, the stars sang him, and Roland felt a profound quiet overtake his troubled heart. Rest, yes. He needed to rest. He still had to lead the remainder of the squad safely out of the wilderness, and he was doing no one any favors wasting precious energy on penitence. With one last look at the sky, he ducked inside the snow trench, pressing himself amongst the furry bodies of his squadmates. He thought he would be too anxious to sleep, but exhaustion took him the moment he closed his eyes.
He didnât know how much time had passed - minutes, hours - when movement stirred him awake. Roland startled, expecting an intruder, but the familiar scent of Skinner quelled his alarm. Wordlessly, he moved aside to allow room for his wayward teammate. Skinner settled sullenly against him, shivering from his solitary trek through the cold. Any impulse to scold him for his rashness was erased by a relief so powerful it made Roland dizzy. Together they nestled in close, sharing in the warmth of the pack.
Abruptly, he returned to the present. He was no longer on Lajok, the wound on his muzzle having long since healed over. The mist clouding the hall wasnât from his breath in the frigid air, but the steam from Morganâs shower. His hand hovered over their door, his determined knock utterly arrested by their haunting, bittersweet song.
His fear of losing Morgan was what brought him to their quarters in the first place. The necrograft they volunteered for was a point of contention he didnât wish to escalate, but concern roiled within him all the same. Skinner had survived his recklessness, but would Morgan? He had come to care for and depend on them, even more so than Zuri back in his Academy days. While he couldnât afford to lose any one of his crew, he knew he would be especially devastated if something happened to Morgan.
Roland had always struggled with his words, even on Lajok with the aid of all his senses. Now, it was even more difficult to convey how he felt, speaking a language that was not his birth tongue, parlaying with people who couldnât scent the true emotions behind his stilted words. He spoke as clearly and often as he could, for fear of being misinterpreted, but it seemed the more he said, the deeper he dug himself. He had offended everyone on his crew dozens of times over, and still, somehow, they followed him.
It left him with the same shocked assurance heâd felt in The Space Between, with his squad rallied around him. Surely the crew didnât defer to him based on rank alone at this point, but it was hard to believe everyone had his back when he fumbled his title left and right. This inexplicable cooperation he owed largely to Morgan.
The song ended, but its echoes rippled around him like ghosts. He lowered his hand, feeling unsettled and wistful and vaguely itchy, his fur saturated with ambient humidity. Morganâs lyrics had slammed him back in time, back to the mountains of his namesake. A tremendous homesickness overwhelmed him. Rather than tamp it down as he usually did, he took a moment to sit with it, his throat tightening and his eyes prickling with tears.
One day the sun would set on his homeworld for the last time. How cruel it was, to love something so doomed.Â
He had left his circles - his family - behind on Lajok. The crew he captained now was a naive replacement, a product of fleeing failure. Still, something within him ached for this to work. His leadership was tested and tested again, yet he felt a peculiar fondness for it, every impulse to run outweighed by a deeper desire for connection. This crew was just as hungry for life as he was. He felt privileged to lead them.
Roland drew in a shaky breath. Only after sunset could he see the stars.
What is your pack like? Vlaka are usually blind and deaf, right? Does that affect the family dynamic in any particular way beyond linguistic accommodations?
We're extremely tight knit. For governmental reasons our moms were forced to actually claim their pups specifically, but apparently it's not something we really do as a culture. As far as i know, i've got 1 full littermate, 3 half littermates, and 5 other cousins who live here at camp.
Yeah, apparently about a third are blind or deaf. In my pack though it's more deaf than blind, to the point that i don't think anyone's blind here?
No?
Ah, apparently one of our dads was blind, but he died a few years back. Though i'm not sure what you mean by blindness or deafness affecting the pack's dynamic? We're pack, and we take care of each other. There's nothing really unique about us.
Shay Siosha, ramiyel character
Friend's OCs for Starfinder campaign.
Can't access twitter for some reason, so I'll just continue posting everything here. After all, I've tried to ask people to have the link to my acc here if this stuff happens.
