In the Bingo Hall

Uncle Bernard is wondering where in hell his morning cuppa is. He can't function without his morning cuppa. Or his bacon sandwich. Or his bowl of coco pops. Or his round of toast for that matter. Oh, and what about his kipper? And his pancakes.

Uncle Bernard actually puts his head around the door to the 'below stairs' bit. Normally, he wouldn't be seen dead in a kitchen. But there's no-one about. No-one. Bruce is normally in here. Slavin- er, skiving outside with a ciggy shoved in his maw and a bottle of sherry.

Uncle Bernard: : is surprised to see that Bruce isn't in that shelter he's fashioned out of torn up tetra-paks, pallets and tar-smeared hessian (thanks Ahab), feverishly puffing away on one of those cigs he crafts himself out of the dog-ends contestants leave behind.

Uncle Bernard begins to get concerned. Will he have to make his own breakfast? P'raps Bruce is on holiday. P'raps Mountjoy will pull him together a small full English breakfast, it's not too much to ask, is it? “Mountjoy!” dash him! Where is he?

later that day

Merlin enters, arms full with papers. “Hallo? has anyone seen Johnson? I've got these papers.” She frowns slightly at the hall. It has been a while since she's been around, but everything looks quite lovely.

Merlin smiles, well- as lovely as it always looks which, depending on the circumstances could mean a great number of things. She shrugs and heads off to see if can't find Johnson. Wasting all this paper just on some forms isn't very environmentally sound.

sometime after that

Dizzyizzy stomps in yelling “Johnson? Johnson!” She heads off into the bowels of the hall, hoping to stumble across some offices.

Below Stairs

Dizzyizzy stops through, looking around. Staff offices. There we go.

Staff Offices and Admin Suite

Dizzyizzy stomps in, then looks around and snorts. No Johnson here. She glances at the forms, biting her lip. One day couldn't hurt. Plus, they're waiting for her, back at the 'dello. And, she hasn't seen Dev in a while. The forms are folded and stuffed away in her pocket.

In the Bingo Hall

Earth Mage Paul Lo wonders what's that about a certain person imposing forms and whatsits and threatening about knee caps. “Are those caps made of knee skin?”, he ponders as he pokes repeatedly one greencoated GERMling in particular, on the elbows. He wanders away, paper behind.

The paper piles hunches under one of the couches, namely Johnson's crashing site.

a while later

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel wanders out of the archives with some forms in hand looking around. “Where's Johnson.?” he mutters to himself. Pre-EMP Historian Rubel sees the searched for person on a couch and leaves the papers next to the sleeping form.

Kestrel is hovering at the foot of the stairs, a similar sheaf of papers in her hand. “She got you too, huh?” Her voice betrays the frustration, kept carefully under wraps.

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel responds, “Yea, about safety regulations of the hermitically sealed room and pre-EMP artefact insurance.”

Kestrel frowns slightly, head dipped in acknowledgement. “Safety regulations, huh. Mine's more about- licenses. And eye insurance and mask distribution and-” a sigh. “Well. I'll talk it over with her later. That aside, how have you been?”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel replies “Good, mostly been traveling about, looking for pre-EMP tech or schematics. How about you.”

Kestrel twists a quick grin. “Oh, about the same as you - though less technology and more spending quality time with those charming chaps in the Jungle. You know quite a bit about that pre-EMP stuff, don't you?”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel replies, “Yes, it is my area of study, and I personally find some of the tech pretty interesting.”

Kestrel deliberates for a moment, forms stashed away in the depths of her rucksack. “Never really thought about the knowhow - the schematics- still being around when most of the technology itself's gone. That does sound quite- well, yes, interesting.”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel replies with a grin, “Usually because centers of knowledge tended to be low on the looters' lists. There is also the fact that finding said schematics on this island is highly improbable.”

Kestrel carries on the thought, “and therefore quite likely to see.” She pauses, and decides not to think too deeply into that. “Indeed.” This with a smile.“What have you found, in your time here? or at all? There must be something of interest.”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel shifts his pack into a more comfortable position “You mean schematic-wise or just in general?”

Kestrel is already comfortable, propped up against the banisters and listening intently. “Whatever you yourself found the most interesting, I s'pose. Convert me.”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel ponders for a moment then slides up his sleeve to reveal a wristwatch. “I would have to say this watch, I had duplicate schematics for a mechanical wristwatch and gave a copy to Callia a while a go. I got a product of it in return.”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel partially covers the watch to shade it and reveal that it glows a soft green. “Callia modified the original design and it does not really tell time, but it does play Dance of the Hours quietly.”

Kestrel, curiosity returned afresh, unprops herself to sidle over and take a look. “Dance of the Hours?” she echoes incredulously. “That is quite, quite appropriate.” She pauses. “What do you mean by it not really telling the time?”

Kestrel all the while keeps every spare shred of attention on her ears - or, more precisely, on the watch itself. Her expression is a distracted one, but still curious.

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel shrugs, “I'm not sure what the hands point to, but it is not the time, even Callia said she didn't know what they were for. “He thinks for a moment then adds “Also, it did not start to glow until after I destroyed the improbability drive.”

Kestrel, too, is only perplexed as she studies the little clockface, eventually straightening again to give back - unfazed - some of the stolen personal space.”Sounds like an intriguing thing - a work of beauty, too.”

Kestrel muses, “It's almost all the more wonderous for not knowing its- function, abilities, whichever, isn't it?”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel holds the watch up and looks at it for a moment, “It is, whether or not it has a discernible purpose- only time will tell.”and lets his sleeve fall back down over the watch.

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel thinks for a moment, “How about you? You seem to have been around a while, surely you have aquired some interesting items.”

Kestrel grins, a little wry. “Oh, you could say so, but few noteworthy.” A moment of deliberation, then, “there's the shuriken, I suppose. Throwing stars. Made by a very dear friend, different things are supposed to happen when you throw them. See -” Kestrel has a leather pouch at her right hip, fastened to her belt there; now she reaches inside to take out one of the throwing weapons, coal-black in colour. This she raps gently against the nearest wall, causing plumes of dark smoke to grow and dissipate.

Kestrel explains, “For a quick getaway - there'd be more smoke if I threw it harder, see. The rest are all different. And purpose can be a difficult thing to divine,” she adds, finger running carefully over the weapon's sharp edge.

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel watches the display with interest. “I can see how that would be useful.”

Kestrel mmhms agreement, brushing a few specks of imaginary dust from the smooth surface. “Yeah. Saved me a limb or three too many times to count; really ought to be using these more often, not just keeping them clean and safe.”

Kestrel glances up again, thoughtful. “Do you fight in the jungles, Rubel?”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel replies “Sometimes. I generally prefer to avoid conflict, but I have the means to defend myself.”

Kestrel nods, slipping the black throwing star back into the pouch to nestle between the others. “And how do you find it?” These questions seem more out of curiosity - that everpresent curiosity - than politeness or any other motive.

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel tilts his hat to the side and scratches his head, “Well its often interesting, and the req tokens are always nice, not that I need anymore of them.”

Kestrel buttons the pouch shut, shaking it gently once to check for the telltale clink, not too loud. “Mm, that's good. Good that you've not getting daily mauled by lions, that is, and the req thing, too.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim, snoring, falls off the sofa with a thump. He wakes, staring about wildly, then relaxes, realising where the hell he is at least, if not what's going on.

Abundantly Ari stumbles up the stairs with arms full of clothes and darts off into the wide world

Kestrel shakes her head slightly, pushing the reverie aside to call a “take care!” after Ari. Then she turns on one foot to dip a smiling bow, and offer a hand up to the sofa's ex-occupant. “G'morning, sir - I trust you slept well?”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim takes the proferred hand, smiling up at the Lady from the floor. “Indeed, ma'am. A slightly rude awakening, perhaps, but of my own making I think. And you? You are in good health?”

Kestrel twists a grin of sympathy and, well, just a grin in itself as she tugs him - not ungently - to his feet. “That I am. Had a nasty attack of paperwork the other day-” gesturing the papercuts on her face “-and again this morning, but good, yes.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim stands, bows a deep sweeping bow, and grins. “Ah, paperwork. We should get you some red tape for those cuts, maybe?” A conspiratorial wink, then puzzlement. “Hmm. Tea?”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel adjusts his hat on his head and starts heading toward the west wing “Well, its been great talking to you, Kestrel. I think I'm going to turn in for the night.”

Kestrel pauses, half-turns, flashes a grin of farewell to Rubel. “Yes - great speaking with you again! Sleep well, and good hunting if ever you require it.”

Kestrel then allows herself a smirk at Sink's words. “Oh, I tried, and it stung like fury when they were taken off again.” Words will be had with that there Johnson. “Tea,” she echoes thoughtfully. “Kitchen, or Mountjoy?”

Pre-EMP Historian Rubel returns the wave and grin, then dissapears around the corner to the west wing.

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim hmms. “At least there is one relief. My arch-nemesis, the coffee machine, has not been seen since the catastrophe. Kitchen, I think. Erm. Where are the kitchens these days?”

Kestrel bites back a laugh, then lets it out anyway, gesturing to the door below the stairs. “Can't say anyone'll miss the little bugger.” A few steps towards their destination, and the door is held, smile returned. “Gentlemen first.

Kestrel corrects herself, “Those with the real passion for tea first. I don't even deserve to drink the stuff after that incident with poor Iri.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim chuckles. “Mad dogs and Englishmen, eh?” then leads kitchen-ward, being, well, both

Below Stairs

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim wanders in, looking bemused. “Ah. D'you know, I must have walked past here a hundred times and never noticed. Bloody dozy sod.”

Kestrel pulls the door to with another easy chuckle, eyeing the cold fireplace with a small degree of worry as she fills a battered kettle from the tap.”Can't say I blame you; this place was bad enough when we all knew where the kitchen and cloakroom were.“

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim looks around, noting the lack of important cooking things, such as fire, activity, and, well, Bruce. “Anything I should know? As to why the fire's out and we've no chef?”

Kestrel deliberates with the kettle in hand, head cocked to one side. “I would say 'zombie apocalypse' if it weren't for the fact that that, here, might be possible. To be frank I haven't even a clue- perhaps the chef's campaigning for higher wages.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim smiles a wry smile. “They're already here, they just seem to want braaaains. I hope they don't want higher pay. I've not had my own Leader's allowance in months. Bernard stopped it for 'bad behaviour.'”

Kestrel imagines a world where Bernard is any kind of firm with regard to rule-keeping and the punishment of bad behaviour, and the mental image makes her wince. “Now, this question is simply begging to be asked; bad behaviour how?

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim shrugs, trying to look repentant. “I took the last Jaffa cake in a Leaders meeting.”

Kestrel, positively horrified, shoves the rusty kettle towards him and crouches down beside the fireplace with a box of matches. Fft, goes the first, dying instantly. “By that logic, taking the second-to-last would also be classed as bad behaviour, no?” Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim grins, one eyebrow raised. “Only if Bernard didn't get the last one.”

Kestrel settles the second match (successfully struck) beneath one of the littlest twigs, regarding it with a mixture of hopefulness - and still that horror as she glances back to Sink. “Blimey, fair point, I can see how that could be seen as bad behaviour.” Kestrel adds, smirk returning, “your secret's safe with me.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim chuckles. “They're as bad as each other, y'know. Woe betide anyone who gets between Merlin and a scone, or Bernard and a Jaffa Cake. We need one of them tables with a spinny serving thing in the middle to avoid embarassing faux pas. ”

Kestrel has now hung the kettle - perhaps optimistically - on the soot-blackened pothook, now dusting her hands off as she rises. “Lazy susan,” she says absently. “Those meetings sound quite-” quite what, Kes? ”-fun.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim looks puzzled. “Who's Susan? Or is that what they're calling Uncle B at the weekends these days?”

Kestrel, recognising a lost cause when she sees one, shoves both hands in their respective pockets. “Lazy susan,” she repeats cheerfully. “The spinny serving thing, unless you meant Mountjoy on rollerskates.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim gains enlightenment, watching the fire under the kettle do the same, if for different reasons. “Ah.” The image of Mountjoy on skates wobbles across his mental cinema, and crashes in a heap on the other side of the screen. Sink titters.

Kestrel appears to be having similar troubles, and after a moment of mouth-clenched-shut and shoulders-shaking, a quick snort of laughter breaks out.“I'm sorry, but you have to hire him to do that next time. Next meeting. And show us footage afterwards.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim thinks that would probably get quite an enthusiastic reception. “We could sell tickets for a show like that. GERM on ice.”

Kestrel's lower lip, bitten firmly down on, quivers with yet more suppressed mirth. “Good Lord, as long as not everyone has to take part - although seeing Teh manage that might even be worth the humiliation.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim isn't even going to try and figure out how that would work.

In the Bingo Hall

Johnson sits up, blinking. Wh. Tea. Wh. Paper. Wh. Paper. She twists and blinks down at her couch, which is suddenly surrounded by a miniature puddle from the paper sea.

Johnson groans. It's followed her here. Feckingfeck. “S'becoming a bloody nightmare,” she mutters, rolling off the couch and landing with a thump on a stack of- of completed forms.

“Feck!” she declares, assuming more midget vocabulary in her surprise. Johnson feels a bit bent in her elbows. And the paper stares up at her, benign and innocent. “Feckery,” she tells it, and peers at the papers right underneath her nose. “Oh. Rubel. Good man.”

Johnson scrambles up and scuffles lots of paper together. “Who's done these forms. Who hasn't done these. What are those. PAUL. What the hell, why have these multiplied. You're not supposed to give me more forms back, that's supposed to be all!”

Johnson thunks her face down on the armload of paper- carefully, she don't want more papercuts- and whiffles through it. “Calm,” she mutters. “Calmcalmcalm. Calmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalm ohFECKIT.” And she's up and off, down the stairs, a Johnson-stream of muttered absurdities and imprecations following behind her.

Below Stairs

Johnson bursts through below-stairs, barely visible over a heaving armful of paperwork. From somewhere in their depths is a consistent stream of words along the lines of feckfeckfeckstaycalmohfreakinggriefwhatthefeckfeckfeckfeck as Johnson and her pile barrel through and into the admin suite.

Staff Offices and Admin Suite

Johnson tumbles in under the mountainweight of paper in her arms and falls face-first onto her desk. The papers slide gently down in a cascade of beautiful sheeting.

Johnson sighs. “Feck,” she says to the desk, and pushes herself up. There is grim determination written in the line of her elbows. Literally. In green ink. “Right, filing.” Johnson treads gently over the paper sea and shuffles together the pieces that she lost in her catapulting into the room. “Mn. Okay. You're all done, you can go into the- that pile over there. And feckit, I can't do anything without filing cabinets.”

Johnson thunks her forehead repeatedly against the desk. Behind her, the paper sea rustles. Johnson says, “I'm fine. Just a tad bit stressed at the moment. Don't worry your inkstains about it.” She lurches up from the desk and tumbles back through the door, adding- “NEED. TEA.”

Below Stairs

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim reaches into the now active fireplace and withdraws the boiling kettle. He pours hot water into the waiting teapot then the tea into two waiting mugs.

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim pauses, milk en-route to mugs, as a chuntering paperchaser chunters across behind him. He waits a moment, in case said paperchaser chases him, then continues, almost certain of its departure.

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim pours another mug. Someone obviously has a greater need than he.

Johnson lurches over to the mug and says, in the direction of Sink's pouring hand, “TEAAAAA.” It may or may not be a statement of gratitude. She puts the mug to her face and inhales the tea so fast it barely hits her lips.

Kestrel supplies uncertainly, “Milk, three sugars? Heaped,” she adds, looking to Johnson for clarification. Then, “Morning, J,” stopping herself just before the rather unnecessary 'how are you?'

Johnson slumps to the floor and holds up the mug again for more. “Please,” she says, suddenly more articulate, back against the counter. “More tea.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim nods, pouring once more. “Morning, by the way.”

Johnson nods. “Milk, three sugars. Heaped,” she repeats, mug still somewhere above her head in hopes of more tea. “Is it morning?”

Johnson peers out at the stove- the cold stove- and frowns. “S'no breakfast cooking noises.” And then- “Where's Bruce? Th'place smells- foodless.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim shrugs. “Somewhere, yes. It's always 5 o'clock somewhere.”

Johnson stumbles up, thunking her mug on the countertop and cringing as it sloshes. She dabs fingers in the spilled tea and licks them. “Feck,” she says. And then- “Grief.”

Johnson glances up at Sink. “Oh.” She considers this. “Okay. Morning to you too.” Johnson drinks her tea.

Kestrel reaches for her own absently, as-is with no sugar or milk; she can't bring herself to mind. “We can always cook?” she suggests warily. “I mean- it won't be up to Bruce's standard, but if we take care, it might at least be edible.”

Johnson mns slightly into her mug. “I has restaurant, 'member,” she mumbles. “I c'n cook.” Whether she will is an entirely different matter.

Kestrel smiles, gaze sliding sideways. “True, you wouldn't let us starve.” Or so she hopes. “Late night, J?”

Johnson puts her empty mug down and attempts a smile. It drips slightly, and rather stickily, down her chin. She lurches around the counter and towards the shelf where the red teapot is kept.

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim shrugs once more. “Meh. I can just eat stuff raw. Steak especially.”

Johnson doesn't find the teapot. “Where teapot,” she demands, glancing over at Sink's. No, he has the dove-grey one. And then- “Oh god, yes. Late- lateweeks. I wake up and drown in paperwork. I sleep on paper. I dream of forms. Feck me, I'm drowning.”

Johnson looks around and spots, in the pantry, a red spout. She swipes it up and thunks it down, filling it from the kettle, and empties a considerable quantity of tea into the strainer.

Johnson adds half the sugar bowl, and a generous dose of milk, and clunks the lid back down. Fingers over the spout again, she picks the teapot up and shakes vigorously.

Kestrel doubletakes, reaching a sympathetic hand to pat Johnson's arm as she considers Sink's expression. “And do you prefer it that way?” she queries, dodging the mention of paperwork for the time being.

Johnson pauses mid-slosh of the teapot. “Do I look like I enjoy being drowned in twenty-five metres of paperwork,” she says. “Kes, it's not a matter of whether I prefer it or not, it's my damned job. I have to do it.” Johnson continues sloshing her teapot, perhaps more vigorously after this interlude.

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim hums quietly. “Give up your day job, and follow the grief trail ho-oo-ome.”

Kestrel pays the price for not being specific enough with Johnson so sleep-deprived. “Yeah, right, sorry,” she murmurs. “But you don't have to do it alone, yeah? I'm willing to lend a hand if it's needed.”

Johnson takes her thumb off the spout of the teapot and puts her mouth there instead. Drinks. Unplugs her mouth a moment in order to say, “That would be lovely. Where are your forms, by the way?” before plugging her mouth back again like a baby with a dummy.

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim has a dim memory of some paperwork. It may have ended up as bedding. “Erm, yeah. Why did I get sent Animal Registration forms? I got rid of the budgie ages ago.”[

Johnson blinks over the teapot. Swallows. Unplugs her mouth. “You know, I have no idea? They were in a file underneath a whole pile of stuff with your name on them. Under the last note you wrote about needing more whiskey and a basket renovation.”

Kestrel winces, both at the manner of tea-drinking and at Sink's response to the question. “Yeah, I got something similar, and sorry, J, I'd hoped to knock you out with common sense before piling on the excuses.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim harrumphs. “Yeah, I got the basket renovation. They still haven't fulfilled that requisition order yet. Typical.”

Johnson blinks at Kestrel. “Oh. You didn't do yours either.” She looks down at the teapot. “Rubel did his. Good man, that. Now I have to find someplace to put them.”

Johnson glances up at Sink. “Requisition order? Sink, GERM is broke. We- I heard- Ebenezer said something about a gazillion zillion something in debt. I don't know how we're being fed.” A look at the empty stove. “Or- well. We're not.”[11/12

Kestrel raises an eyebrow in surprise, then - heck, why now - the other to join it. “Broke. I thought that was pretty much one of our defining characteristics, wasn't it? Drunk, broke, loyal but untrustworthy?”

Johnson raises an eyebrow in response. “Is that one of our defining characteristics?” she says, fingers gripping at the handle and the spout so hard her bones creak in protest. “Because it seems that this defining characteristic is piling up a ton of-” Johnson jerks her head back towards the admin suite- “paperwork, as people keep putting in orders for various things, and requisition amounts, and putting things on GERM's tab, and we don't have the req to pay any of them.”

Johnson releases the teapot and says, at the kitchen in general, “Bruce is gone because I told him he can't have a metric tonne of cheap cheese because we don't have the budget for it. Screw that, we don't even have a budget! We have no req left.”

Kestrel contemplates, resting a hand on Johnson's shoulder to squeeze gently. “Bruce- we have ways, Johnson. Not all of them nice ones, but he'll come back. He owes us. As for the rest - what do we need the money for?”

Johnson puts her teapot to her mouth again and drinks deeply. And then thunks it back down and says, “Booze, mainly. Guttenberg orders a lot. And there's the general upkeep of the place. Mountjoy wants a heck of a lot of stuff. Dave wants more power tools.”

Justified Ancient SinkOrSwim grins, knowing exactly where a part of that can be fulfilled. He bows deeply to the Lady and the Admin, and heads for his basket.

Johnson ticks things off on her fingers. “Calli wants more candy and some mechanical- things. Bernard wants a fresh load of kippers, new slippers, a new bed for the second floor, five new paintings for the gallery. Marly wants more clothing.”

Johnson turns and automatically salutes the Wolf, before ticking more things off. “Merlin put in a request for more instruments. Bishop for some kind of protection-thing against small furry animals, contraption involving wires and electric or summat.”

Johnson runs out of fingers, but keeps going. “G wants better working rights for gremlins, and something about engine grease. Reverb wants her laboratory to be re-outfitted. Rubel needs his room better-sealed, and he needs more books. Marly wants paper.”

Kestrel catches a grin in the corner of her eye, and suppresses her own in returning the bow. “Sleep well, Swim.” Then straight back to Johnson and the matter at hand.

Kestrel asks a simple question, voice clipped and frank. “Why on earth do they expect the clan to pay for those, J. Clan isn't a job. It isn't a charity. I have never understood that- attitude? policy? Please, explain. Because then maybe I can help.

Johnson continues. “Paul wants more pillows, and apparently some landscaping to do with mud-fountains or- or something. Cozen wants a school. I don't know. And some sort of thing for her museum, I couldn't read her handwriting.”

Johnson shrugs. “I don't know why they expect the clan to pay for them, they just do. And therefore, the mountain of paperwork. Some of them are clever enough to fill in forms so I have to file them and pay attention, too.”

Kestrel sighs. “Then let's talk to them. Where they expect this stuff to come from I haven't a clue, and none of this stuff ever happened back with the Quackers. We shared meat and cake and coffee and things and that was it.”

Kestrel stops short of why do we even need an administrator, anyway? and her face flushes, quickly averted

Johnson catches the silence and the intention of the silence, watching Kestrel flush. She picks up her teapot and says, “I don't know. I'm going to go get something to eat, now.” She plugs her mouth with the spout and walks out.

Kestrel curses, turning briskly and stiffly on one foot. One hand is in the other, kneading, being kneaded, and eventually she drops them both to also leave - not to follow after. Just to leave.

in the Bingo Hall

Johnson steps into the Hall, mouth plugged with a teapot, and weaves through the couches and out into IC.

a short while later

Kestrel takes time to think. Time to write. Just a simple note, scribbled out quickly in blue-black ink, paper folded in half and addressed with a single simple J.

Kestrel sets that flat on the coffetable, itch still dancing across her palms. A door is picked at random, and a moment later, Kes is gone.

<note>Part the sixth

The Index</note>