//------------------------------// // 1-5: Graveyard Shift // Story: Confidential Cases: Winggarden // by Anneal //------------------------------// Trace glimpsed up at the rear view mirror as he drove down the road heading out of Winggarden. The vehicles on the road dwindled down late in the evening, which gave him a few minutes to adjust to the handling of his Kessler Mainline that he had to borrow from a fellow officer. The detective glimpsed at a sign on the road, reading in clean white text: "Tidewater City Limits: Est. 1018". The borders between the two were beyond mere administrative lines on a map – as he drove past the sign the road widened and was more brightly lit, fronted by gas stations and strip malls with ample space to park one's vehicle. It felt like an entirely different place, almost like the seediness that permeated Winggarden never existed in Tidewater. Trace turned onto a local road, pulling over onto the side of the road to check the marked map. Rivermark Street was a quiet neighborhood street with houses spread out in generously sized lots, even larger than the ones in suburban Winggarden neighborhoods like Marina Heights. The painted exteriors and slight variations in doors and windows did little to break the houses' uniformity. The neighborhood's inconspicuous enough to hide a smuggling ring. Perhaps that's why it was beneath notice for so long. He grabbed the radio mic and pressed down on the side button. "WPD Detective Trace, 2434, requesting a Code 6A to available TPD units for a 487 ongoing investigation." A few seconds later the radio speaker returned a female voice, faintly interfered by static. "Message received, Detective. Backup will arrive in a couple minutes." Afterwards, he turned off the engine and exited the car, locking the doors. Trace promptly pulled the Army Special from his coat, loading the cylinder with all six bullets. The house of interest was just down the road, a plain red single-floor house and one car garage. Only one of the windows was lit and had their curtains closed – Trace did not want to risk attracting attention with his vehicle. Trace took a deep breath and approached the front door, giving it a short knock. He heard hoofsteps from behind the door, and a few seconds later the door swung open. A short, teal hippogriff looked up at Trace, widening his eyes in surprise. "Hello, citizen. This is Detective Trace Drizzle. Your house is a major point of interest to an ongoing investigation," Trace introduced calmly. He glanced down at the hippogriff's apparel, spotting a faint bulge near his elbow. "Are you familiar with a Mr.Brack Marsh, by any chance?" The hippogriff glanced away momentarily. "...Not that I know of, no." "And you're living alone in this house?" "Yes, sir," he answered more quickly. "I see," Trace focused on the room behind him – the living room lacked furniture and decoration beyond a few wooden crates and chairs. A radio sat at a nearby end table. "I did a brief check on this house before I came here and the records say this house has been vacant for weeks. I'm afraid I have reasonable suspicion to conduct a full search of this house." "Sure thing. Come right on in," the hippogriff replied. He trotted a pace back before suddenly swinging his arm to pull something below his shirt sleeve. Trace widened his eyes. Damn it! Before he could pull out the suspicious bulge out, a shot rang out from Trace's revolver, hitting him squarely in the shoulder. The suspect dropped his pistol onto the wooden floor. "Aaagh!" "I had my gun ready on you this whole time. It's all about reaction," Trace added as calmly as he could, walking into the house and kicking the pistol away. He trembled subtly as he noticed the hippogriff's fur staining with blood below his shoulder. "You shouldn't have made things difficult. You're with Brack Marsh's gang, aren't you? What's your name?" The hippogriff grunted and swore something beneath his tongue. "Screw you, bastard! Get me a doctor!" he shouted. "If you want treatment, you better start answering some questions," Trace retorted, stepping on his back and restraining the suspect's wings and rear hooves. He scanned at the crates a second time; upon closer observation, the front of the crate was stenciled in bright yellow: "ARISIAN CARBINE, CALIBER 8mm". More smuggled guns. "Brack Marsh and his friends are in custody. You're not going to be getting any money from them anymore." "Ngh...Seasmoke. Brack Marsh hired me to stay back in our hideout...didn't trust me to go out with him for bigger jobs," Seasmoke answered with a pained grunt, pressing his shoulder in an ineffectual attempt to stop the bleeding. Trace trotted to the bathroom adjacent to the living room, returning back seconds later with a rag. He threw it in front of Seasmoke. "Who were your gang selling the weapons to? You've got enough here to arm a whole company." Seasmoke grabbed the rag and pressed it against his wound. "Look, I'm a lowly henchgriff for Brack Marsh. Why don't you ask him?" he replied. Trace slammed the crate. "Don't play dumb with me. Surely in the months you've been with him, you would have heard some chit-chat here and there. I can assure you, some officers won't be nearly as nice about gathering information." "The...the Passerinis. They’re one of the four big Wingbardian families. They would get their guns from the Tiger Syndicate in Colthage, but the Tigers are as good as gone. Brack Marsh had been working as a Passerini informant since the Legation, but now he's interested in putting his claws in the arms trade." I've heard of those Colthaginian cartels before, but that's the first time I've heard of that family. Trace unloaded Seasmoke's pistol and stored it in his bag. He then pushed open the crate lid; the crate was filled with multiple service rifles, carbines, and pistols, and he promptly spotted the CR serial numbers on the guns' chambers. "Do the Passerinis have a foothold here in Winggarden?" "Not the button griffs, no," Seasmoke said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. His neck and face were covered in cold sweat. "The family is based in Feathara. You ain't gonna catch them. But they might have associates planted here. That's all I know." Trace huffed and looked at the radio on the end table. It was a rather simple radio set with a transceiver attached to it on a cord. "In Brack Marsh's vehicle, I found a map that led to two different locations. One of my partners is on their way to the other location near the rail yard. Mind telling me what your gang was doing there?" he questioned. Seasmoke leaned back against the wall. "I never saw any map...it sounds like something only Brack Marsh's eyes would see." Trace pointed to the radio. "And this? I'm not convinced you had this to listen to amateur radio." The hippogriff detective grabbed Seasmoke's injured arm, jostling it to aggravate his wound. "I don't want to do this, but my partner's life is on the line. Tell me who's at the rail yard!" "A-agh! I get it!" Seasmoke exclaimed as Trace let go. "It's one of our other hideouts, the one where we store most of our smuggled equipment. We keep some of them here as a contingency, but if we bring too many weapons here, the residents nearby would notice. It's in a storage warehouse, a bit off the road. There aren't that many at the warehouse; I think most of them were with Brack Marsh. We use the radio to communicate with each other on a regular basis." "Do you have their frequency? What time do you usually contact them?" "...910 kilocycles. And around eight in the evening." Trace picked up the transceiver and flicked on the radio; it abruptly came into life with a barrage of white noise, mixed with the faint sounds of conversation and music. He turned the dial clockwise and looked at the small clock on the radio. 7:54. 7:54. Azerda rolled her sleeve down over her watch and sighed, strapping the revolver onto her hoof. The last tram home comes at 10. The sooner I can get this over with, the better. A freight train blew its horn as the locomotive slowly trudged its way through the rail yard. Long chains of railcars sat empty on the maintenance tracks, covered in dust and tagged extensively with graffiti. In front of her stood a faded white brick warehouse with boarded-up windows and a faded blue sign reading: "Blue Sea Fruits". The building was surrounded by a chain link fence with barbed wire extended all the way to the building’s walls to deter would-be trespassers from flying over the fence. The gate was covered in a thick padlock with a bold white board warning: "PRIVATE PROPERTY – KEEP OUT". Azerda gently shook the gate, giving the lock a short tug. Cheap padlock. She sat down and grabbed the padlock firmly with one hoof before slamming her other hoof onto the lock body, jostling the shackle open. The zebra mare threw the lock away and removed the chains bounding the gates in place, slowly pushing the gate forward to allow just enough space for her to slide through. She trotted down the side of the warehouse's featureless brick wall, bending her hooves slightly to muffle their clopping. As she approached the corner, Azerda could hear the faint sounds of creatures' conversing. She took a quick peek past the corner, noticing a set of two steel garage doors with one wide open. Two hippogriffs sat at a round table with a pile of playing cards on the table below a fluorescent lamp – a Greaser submachine gun lay against the table leg. She let out a huff. Some backup would have helped. "Wonder what's taking Seasmoke so long," the light orange hippogriff mumbled, knocking his claw on the table and placing his cards on the table. "Show your hand." The violet hippogriff showed her hand. "Ugh. That's what, 16 points? You win this one, Alcove," she said, picking up the cards and shuffling them into the deck. "He's always late when it comes to those radio transmissions." "Brack Marsh hasn't come back to the warehouse yet. Those Wingbardians are going to check out our gun stash by tomorrow night. We need to get all of the guns here now," Alcove complained. The radio suddenly buzzed behind them. He stood up from his chair. "Wait. I think that's Seasmoke." The two hippogriffs turned to focus on the ham radio. Azerda loaded her revolver, trotting slowly into the warehouse and making her way to the front of a parked freight truck. On the wall opposite to her was a fuse box next to a metal door. She closed her left eye. "...any creature...bzzt...update on the convoy..." a garbled voice came out of the speaker. Alcove grumbled and adjusted the dials on the radio sets. "Damn! Useless piece of junk." "Could be interference from other broadcasts," the violet hippogriff said. "Shouldn't have set up so close to downtown," Alcove snorted and squelched the transmitter. "Seasmoke, is the housekeeper with you? He hasn't come back home from work yet." "Not with us...could be late..." the radio voice responded after several seconds of silence. Alcove frowned. "Cascade, get one of the vehicles ready. Whoever this is, it doesn't sound like Seasmoke. He doesn't know our code." "What are we going to do? Brack Marsh isn't with us," Cascade asked concernedly. "Forget him. We're going to pack up whatever we can and get out of here." The lights suddenly switched off as he finished his sentence. Alcove abruptly picked up his submachine gun, flicking off the safety and charging the handle. "What's going on?" Cascade exclaimed. "Guns down and claws behind your back," Azerda ordered. The stallion aimed the weapon at the direction of the voice in the darkness. "Got some nerve coming in here alone. Should have known that the cops would have caught up to Brack Marsh's scheme sooner or later," Alcove remarked. "You've walked into your funeral, flathoof." “Really? Could have shot you while you were busy playing gin,” she retorted, her voice coming from a different direction. “Not going to ask again. Guns down. Claws behind your back.” A flurry of gunfire cracked out from the table, illuminating the two hippogriffs' faces with abrupt flashes. Azerda reflexively ducked down and trotted away from the metal shelves; the crates stacked on the shelves were peppered with bullet holes. "Aaagh!" the zebra shouted with an agonizing groan, the sound of something clattering on the ground followed by a heavy thump. After that followed seconds of silence, followed by a gurgled cough. Azerda let it die out sickeningly, like the life being snuffed out from a dying soldier. She could hear the two hippogriffs laughing to each other while she slowly crawled her way out of the spot. "What an idiot," Cascade cackled as she lowered her rifle. "There's only one switch in this place. Did she possibly think we wouldn't know where she would be?" "She's not dead yet," Alcove said, abruptly firing a short burst into the shelves, narrowly whizzing just past Azerda's hooves and ricocheting off the concrete floor. He slid the box magazine out from his submachine gun, reloaded a fresh one into the magazine well with a soft click, and cocked the handle. "Turn the lights on. We need to get rid of her body." Azerda held her breath and opened her left eye, dilated from the lack of light. She could hear the soft flapping of wings and a darkened silhouette hover in front of her, close enough for her to get a clear shot. Cascade swung open the fuse box and grabbed the switch before hesitating. "Say, I didn't here her sh–" The Littlehoof strained against Azerda's ribs as she unloaded two bullets onto the hippogriff's back. One tore through Cascade’s chest, then another went through the back of her head, spraying a streak across Azerda’s cheek that left a slight metallic taste on the edge of her lip. A sharp yelp came from Cascade before she collapsed onto the ground, the darkness sparing Azerda from the grislier details. She had little time to focus as another burst of gunfire flew towards her, forcing her to swiftly jump out of the way. “Cheeky bitch!” Alcove shouted, retreating back behind a nearby canning machine for cover. Azerda blinked from the gun flashes and stood back up. The surroundings blackened around her vision. Adaptation’s gone. Going for the switch was out of the question for her; she would be exposed and vulnerable the moment she turned the lights on. I'll have to go blind. It was a little more than a decade ago, but Azerda knew well about how the Chiropterran Legionaries fought – they were primarily composed of Thestrals who had natural night-vision, and their soldiers had a fanatical devotion to the Nightmare that made them ruthless in combat. One had to adapt to how they fought if they wanted to survive in the Nightmare Front. Azerda did more than just adapt. A faint click sounded in the dark. Fifteen meters, two o’clock. Azerda raised her revolver in that direction and fired. The bullet bounced off the canning machine's metal plating. Alcove fired another burst at Azerda's direction – one of the bullets grazed through the mare's rear right hoof. She grunted as she barely stumbled behind a stack of wooden pallets. "I saw your face, zebra. You're not one of the coppers, aren't you?" the hippogriff said with a chuckle. "Would make a getaway a whole lot easier." Azerda closed her eyes briefly and took a deep, strained breath. A red streak trailed down from her hoof. The wound wasn't deep, but the pain was affecting her ability to focus, much less make a gallop away. Damn it...too rusty! His voice visualized a rough area in Azerda's mind where she should be aiming; he was no more than twenty meters in her twelve o'clock direction. "Nothing to say, huh? Should have known you stripebacks don't know how to fight," Alcove taunted before a bullet hit the crate next to him. He smirked as he peeked out of the pressing machine to aim his submachine gun. Idiot. Her muzzle flash is exposing herself. You're good as– Three more shots went out. Alcove felt his grip slacken on his Greaser and instinctively felt the two fresh punctures on his chest, caking his claw in crimson. The pain soon followed as he collapsed, dropping his submachine gun with a clatter. Azerda flicked on the lights, revealing the incapacitated hippogriff stallion. He struggled to get up and tried to cry out, but only managed to cough blood onto the concrete floor. "Save the trash-talking when your target's actually down," the zebra said coolly, dumping the empty shells and reloading a new moon clip into the revolver as she trotted towards him. "Should have taken my offer." Alcove sluggishly crawled towards the submachine gun, seemingly ignoring the zebra."Really? You're still going to try that?" Azerda rolled her eyes and bucked his claws. He convulsed and collapsed again as his claws buckled, lying face upward to reveal his bloodied chest. The hippogriff heaved and sputtered violently. Drowning on his own blood. He'll die in minutes without treatment. The zebra glanced at the unconscious Cascade nearby, who was still breathing despite her head wound. Something made Azerda hesitate, as for a moment, instead of seeing a hippogriff, she saw the dying body of a young tan thestral lying on a forest clearing. The Chiropterran mare lay there, glaring with hate at Azerda as she pulled back the bolt of her Springtide rifle to chamber a fresh round. There might have been a time where the young zebra mare would have felt sick to the stomach. But now, she felt nothing as she aimed her rifle point blank at the thestral's muzzle. Eleven. Azerda blinked as the thestral suddenly disappeared. A vague sense of discomfort washed through her. She let out a sigh and retrieved a single healing potion and a set of plastic cuffs from her satchel, restraining Alcove's wings and claws. "Drink up, hookbeak," Azerda snapped, uncorking the bright red healing potion. The hippogriff stared at her in confusion. After several seconds of struggling to swallow the potion fluid into his throat between his regular gasps for air, the hippogriff's bleeding magically began to slow. Azerda stopped pouring after the potion was half full. "This won't come close to healing your injuries, but at least you won't be dead before the cops show up," Azerda explained, standing up as Alcove could finally breathe once more. "Now it's your friend's turn. And if you know what's good for you, you'll shut up unless I ask you something." Azerda trotted to Cascade afterwards to do the same thing, restraining her with cuffs and pouring the remainder of the potion into her mouth. Once she finished, she sat down next to the body and rubbed her forehead. "Now's not the time to have one of those memories, Zamarata..." Azerda muttered, taking slow breaths from her nose. She pulled out the second potion from her satchel and a small bottle of alcohol, being sure to disinfect her graze wound before swigging the healing potion in a few gulps; healing potions merely accelerated a creature's natural healing, and Azerda had learned of the nasty effects of internal wound infections. The mare stood back up once her wound had stopped bleeding, trotting towards the table to pick up the radio. A key ring with three keys lay next to the transceiver. Whoever was on the other side, they didn't sound like one of Brack Marsh's henchgriffs. Azerda picked up the transceiver and clicked the button. "Any creature there?" She waited a few seconds before a response came. "Who's asking?" "A private detective. You're not Seasmoke, aren't you?" Trace sighed. "Azerda? What did you find? I found some smuggled equipment at the Tidewater house." "Nothing yet except two injured thugs," Azerda said, picking up the key ring. "Get some griffs in blue and some paramedics here before they need a coroner." "Well, I've got one injured here too. I'll arrange one in a couple minutes." Azerda cut the transmission and did a swift search around the warehouse. Most of the building had abandoned canning machines and empty tin cans and jars. Fortunately, she didn't find any moldy fruits – she couldn't stand the smell otherwise. Azerda unlocked the metal door with one of the keys; she assumed the other two were for the chain fence gate and the truck. Azerda pushed the door open slowly, keeping her revolver drawn in the off-chance that there was some other waiting behind that door. She lowered her gun once the room was cleared. It was a simple office converted into a makeshift storage room, with several crates of Crystalstar equipment. Azerda opened one of the crates to check; inside was dozens of pistols, submachine guns, and rifles, worth at least several Shells by her estimates. Enough for a long summer vacation to the Les Meridiennes. Looks like my job is done. She prepared to close the crate's lid before seeing something stick out of the lid's corner. Azerda paused and pushed the lid all the way, spotting a slip of paper taped to the lid's bottom. Or maybe not. Azerda carefully peeled the scotch tape off the note, making sure not to tear into the paper. Once the note was fully removed, she read the scribbled contents: Blue Fuzz: 04-03-24 S100 | Overdraft: 22-03-24 S80 Spot Light: 02-04-24 S70 | Cordon: 26-04-24 S100 Sweetwater: 03-05-24 S90 Azerda checked the rest of the room for any hidden evidence. Not finding anything else of interest, she trotted back down to the stairs to show the slip to Alcove, who managed to recover enough to sit back up. "Alright, got any ideas who these names are?" she interrogated. Alcove groaned and tried to catch his breath. "You...got that from Brack Marsh's office? Could be a list of bribes. Or money he got from the Passerinis. Other than that, I have no clue." Azerda folded the paper in half, hearing the faint, approaching sounds of police sirens. Interesting. It's irrelevant to the case, but now there's another piece of evidence I need answers for, she thought as she stuffed the note into her front pocket. "The Passerinis. One of the Wingbardian families. That's who you're working for?" The hippogriff nodded his head. "I guess you're one of Crystalstar's hired hooves," he said, smirking weakly. "So you're familiar with them." "At least that explains how Brack Marsh was able to plan this out. And they only targeted Crystalstar shipments. My guess is that some rival company wanted to undermine the profits from the company that I work for," Azerda surmised. "But I have no proof of that." "Now...a question from me. Why did you save me?" Alcove questioned. Azerda hesitated. "I'm a detective, not a mercenary. No point in finishing off some griff who's not a threat anymore," she answered as the policegriffs landed in front of the warehouse doors. "Plus, I can't question dead suspects." She began to trot away, noticing a familiar patrolgriff stallion who was quick to greet her with a salute. "The two thugs are right behind me, Spout. And the rest of Crystalstar's missing equipment," Azerda said. "Tell Trace that I'm calling it a day." Water Spout blinked and lowered his arm. "You're...not going to stick around to see Trace?" he asked. "I've got a late night tram to catch," Azerda answered. "And I think we'll be seeing each other soon." The trip lasted almost an hour. Azerda sat quietly on a bench near the back tram door. The tram interior was virtually empty, besides a few drunken hippogriffs sleeping in the rearmost seats. The tram suddenly came to a stop along a busy intersection, next to Good Neighbor Pharmacy. The pharmacy's doors and windows were barricaded with metal bars to deter burglars. Further down the pharmacy's wall was a filthy zebra mare rummaging through an overflowing trash can. "Royal and Mayfair," the driver announced, and with a hiss, the tram doors opened. The Near North wasn't nearly as economically deprived as Communication Hill, but here the roughness still showed; zebra and pony refugees populated the majority of apartments in the Near North, though they were able to eke out a modest living and founded their own local shops, theaters, and restaurants. Those who weren't so fortunate, however, were consigned to sleeping in tents or on the benches of bus stops. Azerda trotted off the tram and looked at the homeless mare. She pulled out a Shell coin from her satchel. "Get yourself some food, Jezella. The liquor store doesn't close until midnight." Jezalla stared at Azerda with her faded blue eyes and unkempt mane before accepting the coin. "...Thanks. Good night, Azerda." Azerda continued trotting down the road, making a right turn onto a narrow residential street. After trotting past a few low-rise buildings and bungalows, she unlocked the metal gate of her three-floor apartment: 232 Hope Drive. The corners of the yellow stucco apartment were laid with stone brick and roofed with terracotta tiles in a vaguely Arisian style – the sides of the apartment were much less picturesque, however, being dedicated to car parking with windows periodically spaced along a plain wall. Azerda then opened the front door and climbed up the stairs to the third floor. The narrow, wooden-floored hallways had a few burnt light bulbs that hadn't been replaced in weeks and the faint smell of mothballs. She stopped in front of the door for apartment 36 and unlocked it, flicking the lights on inside. Home sweet home. It was a simple one-bed unit with four rooms. The living room had a creamy beige armchair next to a bookshelf and an end table with a telephone and lamp, along with a small square dining table with two seats. A radio set sat in the opposite corner, and on top of it was a black cat lying idly with his paw laying over the radio's edge, staring at Azerda. "Hey, Spectre," she greeted with a yawn before noticing an envelope on the ground, presumably slipped through from the bottom of the door. The top of the box was stamped in a purple, diamond-shaped "CS". Spectre let out a long meow. Azerda rolled her eyes, picked up the envelope, and trotted into the kitchen. The kitchen had an old gas stove, a metal sink, and a refrigerator just below her height; there wasn't much room for cabinet storage. The zebra mare searched the shelves below the sink and pulled out a packet of cat food. Spectre continued to meow incessantly all the time until she dumped the dry pellets into a bowl. "By Za'al, you are one annoying cat..." she grumbled. Azerda then took out a paper knife from one of the drawers and cut open the envelope. Inside she found a check, signed from Crystalstar to her name with S600 as promised in her contract. More than enough money to pay for food, utilities, and rent for the next three months. It would be a while before she got her next case, but for now, her personal finances weren't a problem. She placed the check on the dining table and trotted into her bedroom. The room was economical in space, including a sky blue single bed, a nightstand, and a wooden work desk. A wall-mounted closet was tucked next to the door, with a small mirror and drawers for her clothes. Azerda took off her clothes, placed the check on the nightstand, and lay onto the bed. She couldn't be bothered to take a shower, at least not until she got some rest. The zebra glanced at the dimly lit ceiling and took a long breath. What was that thestral I saw? 15 Yennayer, 186 TI/1011 ALB Zirta, Arisian Mandate of Zumidia "You know, we don't take delinquents." The pale green hippogriff military mare put down the enlistment papers and stared at the eighteen-year old zebra. The zebra took a puff of her cigarette, filling the room with nicotine smoke. The post office of Zirta was a minority of buildings left unscathed after the Storm War, being converted into a recruitment office for the Royal Arisian Army. The young zebra's cheek had a dirty bandage below her stripes where she had recently gotten into a fight with local thugs. "I thought you hippogriffs needed more bodies at the front," the zebra snorted, dabbing the spent cigarette into the ashtray. "My papers show I'm healthy. So what seems to be the problem, Mrs. Breeze?" "We need griffs and ponies who are loyal to the Arisian cause, Miss Zamarata!" Gulf Breeze exclaimed, pounding her claws onto the table. "Not naive teenagers who think they can play mercenaries!" Azerda let out a fleeting cough and leaned forward. "You're ruling over our lands, and you expect us Zumidians to show loyalty?" she retorted and took out another cigarette from her pack. She needed another smoke. "My dad was killed by the Storm King. The hometown you're standing on was burnt to ash years ago. And I may have skipped class and stolen food. But I did all that because I needed to survive." She flicked her lighter and lit her cigarette. "And this is still my home. And now, those thestral bastards and Zarcid rats want to take it all from me again," Azerda finished, taking another deep inhale from the thin tube. "So please, ma'am. Let me do something with my life for once." Gulf Breeze stared at Azerda silently for several seconds before finally speaking. "You sure you want to join, Zamarata? We have limited information on these Chiropterrans, but from what we know from ponies and zebras fleeing from Tobuck, they are brutal and merciless," the recruiter warned. "You may not survive...or worse, you'll be captured for whatever cruel experiments they have in mind. I want you to be aware of the risks involved." "I'll be dead anyways if I don't do anything." Gulf Breeze pulled out a stamp and pressed it onto Azerda's enlistment sheet. "Welcome to the Zumidian Auxiliary Corps, Miss Zamarata."