Jerome: The tunnels were dark, the edges of the light from Jerome’s flashlight just barely keeping them at bay. Every moment, it seemed they were pressing closer, and Jerome was finally starting to get worried about himself. He’d been worried about the people lost down here since he’d first learned there were people missing. And now he was probably among them, lost down in the darkness of the tunnels. He’d met up with Greg earlier, but had lost him pretty quickly. He’d hurried off, expecting Jerome to follow, and turned at a fork in the path. Obviously, Jerome had guessed wrong, and ended up far away from Greg. He prayed Astrid hadn’t followed him, even though he knew if she found him, she’d know how to get them both out. He just wanted her to stay safe at home, away from the disaster this night was becoming. “Greg?” he called out, hoping he’d find the other soon.
The Killer: They were nearly ready for the night’s grand reveal, but perhaps the most important piece of their work had yet to come to them. They were after-all, more or less winging it as they went. There had been planning, yes. Weeks of planning. But there were only so many variables you could account for, so many of the wrong people ending up in the wrong place tonight. At one point they’d begun to feel overwhelmed, but after the last hour they realized that things were happening just as they had hoped. No one was any the wiser to the terrible fate that awaited them. They paced the area in front of the chamber they’d discovered a few hours prior. Who would have believed a church existed down here, of all places? This was where they planned to give everyone a wake up call. Let them know just how fucked they all actually were. They lifted their head once they heard the call of another. They had their stage, and now they had their star. All they had to do was think of a scene. Walking around the corner to where they thought the voice came from, they called out, “Hello? Hey- Wait, come back.” They called, sounding lost and wanting help.
Jerome: Jerome continued down through the tunnels, his own footsteps the only sound echoing through the caverns until he heard the voice of another. “Hello?” he called in concern, following where he had heard it come from. “Do you need any help?” He approached the other, his flashlight not quite reaching them yet. “What are you still doing down here?” he asked, assuming it was one of the kids from the party, who’d panicked and ran further through the catacombs when the police showed up. “The police are gone, the entrance is clear. Do you need any help finding it?” He still couldn’t see the other’s face, but he wasn’t afraid. He was used to helping others, and this was no exception. He could find Greg later, he could surely take care of himself.
The Killer: They stood their ground, out of the light from the man’s torch as they listened to his concern. He was truly worried for them, it seemed. How entertaining. “No, not help per say..” They began, after a moment adding, in an uncertain tone, “Well. Yes. I could use some, actually.” They leaned on one foot, easily playing the part of a nervous party-goer. “I found something, and it’s got me worried.” They pointed behind them with a thumb, their face looking worn and tired. “My friends have been missing since the cops arrived, so I came back to find them. And…” They lowered their hand, shaking their head. “I don’t know what to make of it, honestly. It looks like belongings. Bags, phones, wallets.” Not trophies, but simply another part of their plan. They would use these objects against the others. Plant one bloody wallet one someone and suddenly everyone loses their heads.. like dear old Sebastian.
Jerome: Jerome took a few steps closer, keeping his torch pointed down so he wouldn’t blind them. “I can see if I can help,” he offered, his concern growing at the other’s words. “Your friends are missing? How long have they been gone?” There was still the chance all the people disappearing was a coincidence, but Jerome was starting to suspect something was very wrong. He hoped Greg was safe. “Do you think they could be from squatters?” he asked, though he knew someone would have to be truly desperate to even attempt living down there. “Show me, maybe one of the ids belongs to someone I’ve seen tonight.” He waited patiently for the other to show him the way, not wanting to startle them. “How’d you end up all the way down here?”
The Killer: “Haven’t seen some since the beginning of the night. Others, at least an hour.” They informed him, agreeing with a swift nod that he should see what they were talking about. They turned around and led the way back to the hidden church, that was now alight from the dozens of candles they’d light earlier. “I know this all sounds… crazy, But thanks for believing me.” They commented, entering the chamber and doing their best to keep a smug look off their face. A grin was tugging at their lips, but they fought to keep the serious expression they’d been using. “Truthfully, I stumbled across this place.. noticed the candles, so I came and took a closer look.” They pointed towards the far end of the room, past the pews lined with sheets towards a large cross and alter. “Oh.. don’t mind the sheets. It’s all skeletons… I checked.”
Jerome: “Are you sure they didn’t run off when the police came?” Jerome asked, knowing if this person had been down there the whole time, then they probably wouldn’t know if their friends were able to get away. Their friends could be down there searching for them, for all Jerome knew. Leaving, or at least going to where there was phone service seemed like the best idea for them, in Jerome’s mind. “Of course, I see no reason why you’d lie.” It took him a moment to adjust to the light when he entered into the room, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust before staring around in slight awe. “What’s this doing down here?” he asked, barely noticing the sheets. It was beautiful, in it’s own morbid way, and felt old. Jerome always felt closer to God when entering a church, and while this place took his breath away, it felt wrong. Strange. He brushed the feeling off, knowing it was just his nerves. “The stuff you were talking about, it’s in here?”
The Killer: “No, I don’t think so.” They answered, in a far-away tone. They were too preoccupied watching Jerome’s reaction to the grand room they’d brought him into. They wanted to see if he appreciated its beauty, as they did. It would, after-all, be their final resting place. They cocked their head to the side suddenly, a realization coming to mind. They knew they man. They’d seen him earlier in the night. The clerical collar around his throat was like a God Damn cherry on a Ice Cream sunday. The grin they’d been keeping down could no longer be contained at the excitement they felt, for the pure irony of having a priest or brother or what have you here, in the church, as their next victim. If the universe was sending them a sign that what they were doing was meant to be finished, this was surely it. “Yes, right there.” They pointed, their lips curled into a devious expression of amusement. They stepped up behind him, as he examined the belongings. They pulled out a can of pepper spray, something Rebecca had been kind enough to part with, and held it behind their back. “Recognize any of the faces in the I.D.s?”
Jerome: “There seems to be quite a few people missing down here. I’m looking for someone myself,” Jerome replied, trying to make conversation. The last thing he wanted was to scare the kid, though there wasn’t many other matters they could talk about. As far as he knew, they were both down there for the same reason, after all. “Let me see,” Jerome said, not noticing the expression on the other’s face as he tore his eyes away from the scene in front of him to examine the items in front of him. He bent down, picking up a wallet to check the I.D. and having no luck. “They’re recent ones, but I’m not recognizing any so far,” he replied, turning back to the other as he was about to stand up. “Is there anything else around here of interest?”
The Killer: “Well, there is the large cross next to us that I’m thinking of crucifying you on. For irony’s sake.” They informed him, quickly bringing their hand up to reveal the can of pepper spray and unleashing a lengthy blast of the liquid. As Jerome struggled to deal with the sudden attack, they looked down to the table on which the stolen belongings lay and reached into one of the bags, where they had hidden a number of tools they knew they’d be needing at one point or another. They dug around for a moment, unsure exactly of what they were looking for until their fingers grazed the cold metal of a hammer. They pulled it out quickly, whipping it in the air towards the man’s left kneecap as he stood trying to cleanse his eyes. The hammer hit with such force that the knee shattered. The sound was perhaps one of the most sickening they’d heard all night, and as they turned their head in a squeamish manner they couldn’t help but to let out a laugh. “Fuck! That was good. Was that good for you?” They asked, watching him struggle.
Jerome: “Excuse me?” Jerome asked, the words impact not quite hitting him just yet. It wasn’t until he felt the burning liquid hit his eyes that he realized he was screwed. He let out a small pained yelp, trying his hardest to stay on his feet. He closed his eyes quickly when he realized what was happening, but that didn’t stop him from getting most of the stream in his eyes. It was painful, but wasn’t the worst thing he’d endured, and he knew things would get worse if he didn’t get away right away, or manage to take the other down. He gave himself a few moments too long to recover, and it was right when his sight was returning that he felt the blow to his knee. It was agonizing, and the sound of the bone shattering was nauseating. He fell to the floor, no longer able to support his own weight on his broken knee. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, trying to crawl backwards, away from the other. He couldn’t walk, so he couldn’t run, or fight very well, but if he got his hands on a weapon, he could still manage to get out of there alive. He had to try. For Astrid, at least. He wasn’t about to leave her alone without a fight.
The Killer: They watched as he attempted to semi-blindly push himself away from them. They tossed the hammer in the air, watching it after it spun upside down once in the air. They had a carefree air about them, still too entertained by the cosmic irony before them to care much about anything else. Jerome’s question brought their attention back, and they pointed to him with the hammer. “Can you see? It wasn’t my intention to blind you,…not permanently at any rate.” They waved the hammer as if to say it didn’t matter either way. “We’re in a church. You’re a man of God. This is my….” They paused, searching for a appropriate metaphor, “art gallery. And you, dear man, will be my centerpiece. I’ve done a lot of beautiful work tonight, but really-really this is going to..” Their words drifted to silence once more. “Can you see?” They asked again, their tone calm for now.
Jerome: Jerome’s back hit one of the walls, and he knew he was next to done for. Now, all he could hope was that the other would come close enough so he could incapacitate them before they managed to harm him further. Who knew how long he could take this, the adrenaline had already kicked in, the fear for his life pushing the pain away somewhat. But it was still there, and still agony, and Jerome knew even if he did survive, there wasn’t much chance of rescue. He’d heard the stories from Astrid, the catacombs were a maze, there was a chance they wouldn’t even find his body, if he ended up dead. “I can see,” he replied, trying to use reason, “I can see, and you don’t need to do this. There’s still a chance for you, if you repent. You don’t want to go down this road, please.”
The Killer: Good. They wanted him to see what would become of him. They were in no mood for a fight, so they’d been keeping their distance. Begrudgingly, they moved in closer, using the wounded man’s words as a guise. “Do you really think that?…Think that I can….stop” They were more so using this as a way to get closer, than actually caring as to what the man had to say. They had no interest in hearing him blubber on about repenting for their sins, and asking God to forgive their terrible, terrible deeds. “I’ve done some…awful stuff tonight. I’m not sure if I can stop.” They still had the hammer in their hand, but it seemed that they were more focused on what Jerome had to say than actually using the weapon again. Which was, of course, completely false.
Jerome: “Anyone can repent, if they truly want to,” Jerome went on, knowing it was risky. He wanted to believe in the best in everyone, but he knew there were still people missing down there, and now he had a pretty good idea of what had happened to them. It was likely they just wanted to distract him, but he was willing to take the bait anyways, while staying prepared. He wouldn’t win in a fight when he was crippled and the other had a weapon, so it was really his best bet. “As long as you’re alive, there’s always a path to forgiveness. Do you want to follow it?”
The Killer: They paused, standing next to Jerome’s feet as they thought over the man’s questions. “Well. Therein lies the problem, I suppose.” They said, thoughtfully as they knelt down slowly beside him. With his knee as injured as it was, there was slim to no chance that Jerome would be able to lash out towards them where they were. “I don’t want forgiveness.” With their answer, they suddenly brought the hammer down for another strike, this time the right kneecap. They pulled back quickly, as to not be in the man’s reach, and stood. They turned about in a circle, listening to Jerome’s cries of pain with their eyes closed. They were euphoric, for the first time in a long time. Finally they stopped and opened their eyes, turning their head in the other’s direction. “No, I don’t want forgiveness. What I want is recognition, for the very bad things I’ve done tonight.”
Jerome: Jerome waited, praying that they would take his advice. He had already devoted all of himself to his God, he had nothing left to offer in return for his life and safety. He just hoped what he’d done before would be enough to save him whether it be this life, or the next. The person’s next words made his heart sink, and he barely had enough time to realize how in over his head he was before his other knee was shattered and he was screaming. It was blinding, and he was surprised he didn’t go into shock. Having heard what they had said earlier, he almost wished he had. “When you… die… no one but God will remember you,” he breathed, his voice wracked with pain. “You won’t get what you want.”
The Killer: They looked between the man and the large cross, debating how best to go about this endeavor. Finally, they realized that it would be most efficient to bring the cross to the floor, and hammer him in rather than attempting to do it while it stood. In their thought, they almost missed the comment Jerome directed to them. They lazily turned their gaze to him, a vaguely displeased expression on their face. “God?” They snorted. “There is no God. There are only people. Like me, and you. And usually, the people like me win.” As Jerome sat against the wall in pain, they sat the hammer in the nearest pew and began moving the cross into position. It was heavy, and nearly too much so for them but they managed to get it to the floor without dropping it. Putting it back up would be a bitch, no doubt, but they were dedicated to their work. They would preserve. “Jesus was on the cross for…three days? Unfortunately, we just don’t have that sort of time. It is a shame, though.”
Jerome: Jerome closed his eyes, muttering hail marys under his breath. They made not have believed, but Jerome had faith, and he knew he’d be rewarded in the next life. He had hope. Faith had given him so much hope, and it was something not many people understood. Most people saw him devoting his life to a backwards institution, and didn’t understand what he got from it. With his belief, he was able to face death, he’d done it before, and he’d never expected to be back at a similar point. The big difference this time was he had more to lose, more people that would care if he was gone. He wasn’t praying for himself, he was praying for them. “If you believe that this is victory, then I pity you,” he replied, forcing himself to sound calm. Panicking wouldn’t help anything. “That’s a sad way to live, trying to find meaning in hurting others. I hope someone prays for you.” He went back to his praying after that, deciding not to give the other the satisfaction of an argument.
The Killer: Pity. One of the many words that they could just not stand for tonight…or in reality… ever. Such a thing had always disgusted them. “Save your prayers for someone who needs them. Like…Astrid. That’s her name, isn’t it?” They asked, stepping back from the cross and wiping their brow with a sick grin. They’d overheard many conversations tonight, and had picked up a few names along the way. “She could really use your prayers, with what I have in mind for her.” They nodded in agreement with them-self, walking over to Jerome and bending down by his feet. They grabbed him, pulling his legs and after a moment hearing a sickening noise from his knees as the bones were pulled. The pain had to be nearly unbearable, they knew, but still the screams were irksome. They drowned out Jerome’s cries, continuing to talk as they drug him next to the cross and dropped his legs. “I think…I’ll make her into an angel. To watch over you. She would make a beautiful angel, don’t you think?”
Jerome: If there was one thing that gave Jerome any comfort, it was the fact he was convinced Astrid was still at home. Sure she was waiting for him, and it would hurt when he never came home, but at least she was safe. He couldn’t say the same about Greg, but he had hope. Greg could take care of himself, and he could take care of Astrid. They just wanted to provoke him, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He continued to pray, for his own comfort, but the words were dragged out into an agonized scream when he was dragged across the floor. The pain drowned out the other’s words, and he was left panting on the ground when he was was finally left alone. He tried to keep out the thought of what was to come out of his mind. He couldn’t get the words out, but he continued to pray in his head, letting the words drown out his fear and the pain.
The Killer: “No opinion, Mmm? Don’t worry, I don’t need a second one anyway. I tend to be correct about these things. I have…vision.” They left Jerome’s side, returning to the bag of tools they’d brought from The Room. There had been all sorts of goodies stored away for use, and they’d pocketed a variety of things with no real idea of what to use them for. Now however, it seemed that fate was giving them another sign by the mere fact they’d actually brought a handful of nails. They’d never dreamt of something as grand as crucifixion, merely using them to pin a victim down as they worked. Grabbing the nails, they walked back to Jerome and the cross. Holding them between their lips, they used their hands to pull Jerome onto the large wooden cross. He protested, and they did their best to avoid any hands he might through their way.
Jerome: The other’s words weren’t something Jerome wanted to consider. He couldn’t exactly stay in denial over his fate, but that didn’t stop him from trying. A clean death would be preferable, but he wasn’t going to beg. He wouldn’t stop that low as to beg for mercy from the person who wanted to kill his child. He tried to ignore the clank of metal, closing his eyes again and trying to drown it out with prayer, now that he felt he could breath better. He didn’t deserve to die the same way Jesus did. He wasn’t dying a martyr, he was dying because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though his faith had given the other their rather… colorful idea. “Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee,” he continued. He’d burnt the prayer into his memory long ago, and now it was almost as natural as breathing to recite it.
The Killer: They began with the hands. Or, more precisely the wrists. They were going with knowledge they had accumulated over the course of their life, from one source or another. You nail in the wrists, rather than the hands, and the victim stays more secure. Taking out a single nail from their mouth, they gingerly held it atop a vein in Jeorme’s wrist, their other hand holding the hammer. Using the weight of their arm atop his, they kept him pinned into place. Wavering the hammer a few times, they finally struck and pinned the nail through Jerome’s flesh. The sight of the nail penetrating the vein, ripping flesh, was strangely uncomfortable to witness, even after all they had done tonight.
Jerome: Jerome kept his eyes shut tightly closed as his praying increased in desperation. He tried to yank his arm out of the other’s grasp, unable to put much force behind it because of the agony he was in. All he managed to do was make himself dizzy. He knew what was to come, and sure he read about it happening in history books, but the reality was more terrifying than he could’ve imagined. He felt the nail pressed against his wrist and continued to weakly attempt to struggle, each movement sending a jolt of pain through his legs. He couldn’t help the bloodcurdling scream that wrenched itself from his throat. He could feel it pressing through flesh and pushing bone out of it’s way until it was stuck deep in the wood. Jerome couldn’t breathe, could barely think as the pain took over, combining with the ache from his shattered bones. All he could hear was a ringing, and when it faded, he was surprised to realize he was still praying on autopilot. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,” he mumbled, his words slurred. He didn’t think he’d be able to continue to speak after this, but if he was going to die, he wanted to finish the prayer, “Amen.”
The Killer: Should the circumstances had been different, they would have been annoyed by the hastily muttered prayers that Jerome played on repeat. In this scenario however, all it did was all to the..authenticity, of it all. By all means, they would allow him to continue. They tended to prefer sound while they worked, generally their own whistling or humming, but the prayers were a acceptable substitution this time. They placed their fingers on either side of Jerome writs, wriggling it for a moment to see just how secure it actually was. They were satisfied to see that there wasn’t much leeway to be had, and so pulled out a nail and leaned towards the remaining wrist. Almost on queue, they hammered the second nail in as Jerome was finishing his prayer with an ‘Amen’. They wiped sweat from their brow with the back of the hand, leaning of Jerome’s face with a look of satisfaction. “You really know your lines. I don’t think there’s been a finer performance tonight.”
Jerome: Jerome’s vision blacked out as the final nail was struck in, and for a few moments, he thought the world was being merciful and the pain would finally stop. His prayers weren’t answered though, and he came back within a few moments, though to him, it could’ve been an eternity. He couldn’t speak anymore, the pain too overwhelming. He’d faced pain before, he’d come face to face with death, but it was nothing like this. He could feel the blood gushing from his wrists, he must’ve been quite a sight, he thought. The last thing he wanted to do was open his eyes and have to look, both at himself and his attacker. He blocked out the other’s words, refusing to even think about them, though he was barely capable of it even if he wanted to. His words weren’t lines or a performance, and they certainly weren’t for them. They couldn’t warp his faith, no matter what they said to him.
The Killer: They were doing their best to avoid the pools of blood that were forming below Jerome’s wrists. They couldn’t very well keep changing their clothes, or hiding it under a jacket. Someone would catch on eventually. What was that saying… The devil was in the details? They walked to Jerome’s feet, glancing upwards at his face once more to see if he was still conscious or not. He seemed to be going in and out, but for the moment he was there with them. The quiet began seeping into the room. They were bothered by silence. Could never stand it. So, they picked their humming back up. Before they lifted Jerome’s legs, positioning them at just the right angle, they pulled off his shoes and socks and tossed them aside. Their intention was to prolong his suffering, and they knew that the key was to ensure his legs could hold him longer. Once they were satisfied with the positioning, they pulled the final nail from their mouth and held it against Jerome’s barefoot. Unceremoniously, they nailed in the last spike, finding it more troublesome than the others. They had to hammer it several times, the nail resisting going fully through Jerome’s left foot, and then the right. They breathed heavily, continuing to hammer until finally they felt the nail could do in no further. They took a step back to check their work, allowing the hammer to slide from their grasp onto the dirt ground beside them.
Jerome: Jerome was trying to drift off in his own head, away from the pain and the strange coldness of the room. For the first time in a long time, he felt as if god could not see him. He was jolted out of his thoughts by the burning pain the shot through him as his legs were moved, prompting a low, pained groan from his throat. He’d thought he’d screamed himself out already, torn his throat apart with the force of it. He realized he was wrong when he felt the next nail being hammered in. Each strike from the hammer ripped another scream from him, and when it was all done, he noticed for the first time he was crying. He didn’t know how long he had been, possibly for a while. Everything was fuzzy from blood loss and shock, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer like this. Or he hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t know whether he was actually that close to death, or he was in denial, just wanting the pain to end. People didn’t die this fast when crucified, he knew that from his studies. But he also hadn’t thought they bled that much, so maybe something was different. Maybe the nail had hit something important, and he really was feeling himself fade away.
The Killer: They’d heard so many screams tonight, the sound could almost be considered white noise. …Mmm.. Admittedly, nine times out of ten the sound annoyed them to no avail, but there was truth in the fact that they could at least to some degree block it out, when necessary. “I hope it’s not too awkward.” They began, pausing to bend down and pick up the top of the cross. They groaned, their own knees and back aching with the effort. The cross wobbled, and for a moment they feared it would topple down on them, but they managed to maintain their grip and push it upright, no doubt wriggling Jerome’s body in the process. They leaned the cross against the alter it had been against before they moved it, their hands at the ready to catch it for a moment until they were sure it was in place. They wiped their hands together, brushing off the feeling of wood. “Yes, I think… Its just right.”
Jerome: Jerome couldn’t even scream again when the cross was moved, wrenching his wounds in the process. Or maybe he was screaming, and was just too far away to hear it. Everything felt strange, both too real and unreal at the same time. It was a welcome change from the overwhelming agony, though that was still creeping in around the edges. Once the cross was upright, the feeling intensified, his weight having to be completely supported by his injured wrists. His legs were useless in helping. The shock of it all was finally starting to overwhelm him, and things were starting to go white, or black, Jerome couldn’t tell. All he knew was it was a relief, and he wanted to chase the feeling of nothingness, no matter the consequences. Astrid had Greg, they’d all be fine without him. That was his last thought before he finally passed out from the pain and shock, his head falling forward now that he could no longer support it.
The Killer: Admiring their work, they stood a few feet in front of Jerome and watched as his head dropped. At first they were unsure if he had blacked out, or actually passed, but his breathing continued and they realized it was the former. They let out a heavy sigh, realizing that while, yes, the sight was remarkable it was…incomplete. Where Jesus had been given a crown of thorns, Jerome’s head remained bare. A frown formed on their face, and they crossed their arms as they stared at the sight before them, waiting for…inspiration. All that was at hand were bones and dirt, and those were not much use. As they watched the blood trickle down Jerome’s wrist, they realized that they had a source of material right in front of them. They walked over to their bag, pulling out the very knife they’d already used several times before. Walking back to Jerome, they wasted no time in holding the knife above their head and plunging it into his chest. They moved to the side, dragging the blade down as straight as they could from their position. Almost as soon as the cut was made, Jerome’s innards spewed forth and fell onto the floor. The smell was appalling, and they took a few steps back, covering their nose with the arm. Another organ slid out from Jerome’s gut, and fell to the floor in a pile with the others. His intestines were hanging out, still attached. They walked back over, carefully severing a small length of Jerome’s intestines with their knife. The organs were slick and warm in their hands, and the feeling was..enjoyable. Stepping away from the pile of guts, they stepped atop the alter so that they could be high enough to reach Jerome. Carefully, oh so, so, so carefully, they fashioned the intestines into a makeshift crown and placed it atop Jerome’s head.
Jerome: Jerome was already pretty far gone when cut was made, and it didn’t take much to push him over the edge from unconscious, to dead. His breathing slowed, then stopped, and the blood stopped flowing as quickly without his heart to pump it out of his body. He went limp against the cross, a grisly sight, covered in guts and blood and just hanging there, like he was a morbid statue instead of a person.
The Killer: They jumped off of the alter, their hands now covered in blood and who-knows-what. Instead of doing any of the many things they needed, they quietly walked forward to the pews. They sat in the very first row, next to a white sheet that concealed a skeleton. They leaned back, their arm resting on the back of the pew, and a leg coming to sit across the other. Their head cocked to the side, slightly, as they looked intently at Jerome’s body. It seemed as if they were searching for some hidden meaning in the gruesome scene, like an observer at an art-show trying to understand the meaning behind a piece of fine art. They too were trying to understand. Their actions. Their motive. How far they were willing to go, and how long they intended to keep this up. They rolled their neck, cracking it. A sudden laugh erupted from them, and broke the eerie silence. They had no answers for these questions. And quite frankly, they were unsure they ever would.
