Spoiler
A bed is seen. It's in a dark room, alternating bars of light and shadow slicing it apart, blinds over the window shading the light from outside. The covers are rumpled, messy. The shapes of two people can be made out lying under them, the forms close together, sleeping, limbs entangled.
A small bright light turns on, on the bedside table, accompanied by a buzz.
One of the forms on the bed stirs. It begins to rise, the covers and blankets conforming to the body, a womanly shape becoming more visible. The woman sits up in the bed, holding the sheets up over her body. She turns on a small lamp sitting on the bedside table; it's Dana. She reaches over to the buzzing light, picking it up.
The other shape on the bed stirs. "Mmmhmph..." Rishon is stomach-down on the bed, the side of his face resting on the pillow. He yawns. "What time is it?"
"6:30." Dana stops the buzzing, setting her phone back down on the bedside table.
"Headin' in?"
"Yeah." Dana stands up, the sheets falling from her, bare back visible. She grabs underwear from a dresser and starts putting it on.
"Let me fix you some eggs."
"No, you just keep sleeping." She's slipped on a blouse, grabbing pants from a closet.
"'Kay." Rishon hasn't moved the entire time.
Dana is dressed now, shoulder holster slipped over her blouse, a jacket draped over her arm. She's heading to the bedroom door. She looks over her shoulder at Rishon, asleep again. "Freelance..." She slips on the jacket, then exits the room.
Rishon's eyes are closed, his face flat against the pillow. The sound of the front door sliding open and then shut is heard.
Rishon's eyes are still closed.
One of them opens. He looks around. The other one. He sits up in the bed quickly, flinging the covers and sheets back. He slips on underwear with one hand, grabbing a pair of pants off the ground with the other, all in a single fluid motion as he gets out of the bed. He gets dressed quickly, jacket sleeves slightly too short, collar too small to do all the way up. Last, he takes his notebook from his bedside table. He flicks it on, skimming over the pages; it's covered in notes. The serial numbers from Nick's journal are visible.
He pauses for a moment, then writes the note: 'Rimōkai implants in warehouse, Rimōkai financing for McCloy, WHAT'S THE CONNECTION? WHAT'S HE GIVING THEM?' He underlines the last part.
Rishon wanders into the kitchen, sitting down on one of the chairs. He stares out the window, chewing on the end of his stylus, the notebook still resting in his hand.
He puts an earpiece on, his notebook displaying the text 'CALLING NICK'.
"The customer you are attempting to contact is unavailable. Please, leave a message aft-"
Rishon takes the earpiece off, shoving it back in his pocket. "Probably sleeping off his hangover..."
He chews on the stylus. Snowflakes drift lazily past the window.
Dana sits in traffic. The road around her is jammed, the sky above buzzing with a flurry of aircraft and snow. The street is enclosed by vertical surfaces. She impatiently taps her finger against the steering wheel.
Her phone buzzes, lighting up its small buzzing light. She picks it up; a notification greets her gaze. 'RIMOKAI CRIME UPDATE(S): 1 NEW SINCE LAST CHECK'
She taps the 'SHOW' button.
'INTERPOL CONTACTED OVER LARGE-SCALE THEFT, PONTIANAK INDONESIA; INSIDE JOB SUSPECTED.'
Dana speaks. "Who called this in?"
'RIMOKAI SECURITY, AT BEHEST OF KATO-SMITH, JOHNATHAN, RES. MANHATTAN'
Dana taps her finger a few more times. She bites her lip.
"Where can I find Kato-Smith?"
A frozen puddle is seen on a street, a neon sign reflected in the crystalline surface, 'THE PEARL' written in cheap faux-cursive tubes of ionized gas, complete with a rough approximation of stringed white circles. A foot steps onto the ice, slipping.
Rishon nearly falls, regaining his balance at the last moment. He brushes off his coat, looking around. He clears his throat, then continues walking, into the Pearl.
Inside, a hazy smoke-filled room. It's unclear if the murk is from smoke machines or cigarettes; probably a mix of the two. Bright lights flash, beams cutting through the smoke. Lasers put on an obnoxious show above a dance floor of cracked glass squares, lighting up in time with the beat of the music. A small but dense crowd of people stand on the floor, each individual seemingly hearing their own song, moving in time to a rhythm unique from everyone else, and from the song playing through the speakers.
Rishon rubs the inside of his ear with his finger. He raises his eyebrows, checking the time on his watch. He saunters over to the bar, a stretch of plastic curving out of the ground and up into the ceiling. A bartender stands behind the polyester, hair down to the shoulders. The bartender's sex and race are indeterminable in the light.
"Starting early, aren't ya?" He says to the bartender; he taps his watch. 8:47.
"It stop when dey stop, man." The bartender points towards the group on the dancefloor. "And dey don' stop for long time, the shit I seen 'em takin'."
"Ah." Rishon nods. "Erm, looking for an Irish fellow, heard he likes this establishment. Lots of 'ware, machine-type body. Know who I'm talking about?"
"You be lookin' for one dem Mul men. Dere be one inna corner, dere. Forget which one he is."
Rishon turns in the direction the bartender indicated. "Thanks."
Rishon walks towards the corner, giving the dancefloor a wide berth, his hand absently fiddling with his notebook and stylus. He approaches a booth. In it, sitting alone, is a very large man; wide and (even while sitting down) quite tall. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his mouth open wide, a small white square dissolving on his tongue. In the neck of his shirt, the white plaster of a cast can be seen covering much of his chest.
"Excuse me, Mr. Mul-?" The man's eyes roll back down instantly, the pupils wide and vacant. His mouth is still hanging wide, a thin trickle of white saliva dangling down from the corner. The small square on his tongue is gone, the last few white granules melting away. "Uh... Hello?"
"That you, Tom? f**k you doin' here, Tom. Why you got that fire comin' out yer eyes, Tom?" The white saliva falls down onto his black shirt.
"Uh, yeah, it's me, Mul. Uh, Tom. What're you doing?" Rishon sits down, across from the man.
"Tom? Sound different." The man blinks. "I'm just watching, Tom. Hearing. Do you hear it, Tom? The machine noise?"
"Yes I do, Mul." Rishon's eyebrows raise slightly. He scratches the back of his neck.
"Your uncle send you down here, Tom? Checkin' up on me?"
"My uncle?"
"Ian, Tom. Ian."
"Yes. Yes, he did send me." Rishon takes his notebook out of his pocket, stylus ready, poised over it. "He wanted you to tell me how things with Rimōkai are going?"
"Rim-oh what, Tom?" The man blinks again, leaning in closer to Rishon. "You want some water, Tom? You got fire burnin' deep in you, Tom."
"No, that's okay. Not thirsty. Back to the question... Rimōkai. The, uh, the Japanese you're- I mean, we're dealing with."
"Japs, Tom? Rising Sun motherf**kers, Tom. Things are same as they've been with them, Tom."
"And things are...?"
"Let your uncle know, fire-eye Tom, the deliveries are all just right as rain, Tom."
Rishon is writing. "Deliveries, you say. Remind me, those deliveries, they're...?"
"f**kin' Christ, Tom. Thought your uncle could tell you this. The people, Tom. The people." The man's eyes look upwards, his pupils two black saucers surrounded by a thin band of colour. "Watch out, Tom. There's a drip of letters comin' down next to ya, Tom. Four letters, Tom. Dripping from the ceiling, from the machine noise. Wouldn't want that to touch ya, Tom. Nasty letters, in certain orders. Especially with yer fire, Tom."
"I'll watch out for it." Rishon continues writing. "So, these people you're giving to the 'Japs', what people are they?"
"People, Tom. Just people. OSL shitheads, Tom. Low people, Tom. The not-missed, Tom."
Rishon raises his eyebrows. "Uh-huh... well, Mul, thanks. Ian... Ian's gonna be happy with this." Rishon gets back to his feet, stepping away from the table.
The man furrows his brows over dilated eyes. "Are you sure you're Tom, Tom? That eye-fire is yours, Tom, but I see a shifty not-Tom in those eyes now. A shifty not-Tom with burning ice veins, Tom." He licks at some spittle at the side of his mouth. "Is that you, Tom? Or is that not-Tom?"
Rishon backs away slowly, making a last few notes in his book before putting it away. "Yes."
The man nods. "Thought so." His eyes roll back up into his head as he leans back into the booth, his jaw slack and open once more.
Rishon stares at the massive cyborg man in front of him. He turns and walks away from the booth. A grin spreads across his face. "Thank god for narcotics." He pats his pocket where his notebook rests.
The frozen puddle is seen again, still reflecting the bending glass of neon gas spelling 'THE PEARL'. Rishon's foot comes down on it again. The ice cracks, white fractures spreading across the surface, water seeping up from between the crystals.
The exterior of the Rimōkai building is seen; a spire rising high, taller than most other buildings, the corporation's logo displayed from the top of the tower in three-story letters. Snow falls around it, a few rays of sunlight breaking through the overcast sky.
Inside, the reception for Kato-Smith's office. The white walls of alabaster gleam in the light, a ray of sunshine shining through a window illuminating the small room. The view through the glass is wide, a sea of buildings stretching into the horizon. A sundog is visible. Dana is sitting on a chair, arms folded, biting her lip, staring out the window.
"Detective Cohen? Mr. Kato-Smith will see you now." The secretary speaks. She's sitting behind a desk the same colour as the reception, her hair done up in a tight bun, pinned in place with chopsticks.
Kato-Smith is sitting behind his desk, dark brown hair perfectly combed, small glasses perched on his nose, an immaculately-tailored pinstripe suit resting on his body. He gets to his feet, extending his hand in greeting.
"Ah, good morning. Dana, was it?"
"Yes." Dana clasps the hand. "You're Mr. Kato-Smith, right?"
"Please, Detective, it's Johnathan. Just call me John." He straightens out his jacket as he sits down. He smiles. "Take a seat."
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." Dana sits down. "I just had a few questions about a theft reported by Rimōkai security. The Interpol dispatch said you called it in."
John leans back in his chair. "Ah, yes, the Indonesian incident. Very troubling. The implications don't sit well with me." He raises his eyebrows. "Actually, I'm surprised that the MPD is taking an interest in this. Begging your pardon, but the theft did occur on the other side of the planet. That's, uh, a bit outside of your jurisdiction. Heh heh." He smiles.
"The incident may be connected with an open case. It's a longshot, though, so I felt it best to avoid the Interpol channels. For now, at least. If you don't mind."
"Oh, certainly, it's no trouble. Although I doubt I can be of much help."
Dana pulls out her phone, setting it on the table, pressing a button on the side. "When did the theft occur?"
"The date is very hard to pin down, but it was at the very least nine weeks ago. Our computer records had been altered, so nothing can be said definitely." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "I've had our security go through our records from the plant. Seems this may not have been the first theft."
"So this may have been going on for awhile?"
"It appears that way, yes."
"What exactly was taken from the manufacturing plant?"
"I can't say off the top of my head. It was a few dozen products, mainly artificial limbs. I believe there may have been a handful of organs, as well."
"Apart from the false information, is there anything else unusual about the thefts?"
"I'm sorry, Detective, but I've already told you just about all I know. I'm in charge of our cybernetics branch for North America. All of these incidents occurred in Asia. My knowledge of the crimes is negligible." He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm sorry, but I really don't see how I can help beyond this. You'd be better off discussing this with our own security personnel, the Pacific HQ in Tokyo, Interpol, or the Pontianak police."
"I understand that. I'm just trying to get an idea of how you came to know about this. Like you said, these thefts occurred on the other side of the planet, far outside of your North American supervision. Just seems odd that, out of everyone in Rimōkai, you're the one who notices this."
"Well, I didn't exactly find it myself. Really, it was a colleague of yours who discovered the theft. He simply needed me to confirm it."
Dana raises her eyebrow. "A colleague? Who?"
"An investigator from a private firm. His name was, ah, Nicolas Fukuyama, with Jin-LaCoeur." Dana's mouth drops open. "We have some ownership in the firm, so naturally I—"
"Nick saw you?"
"Er, yes, Nick." John is taken aback by Dana's reaction. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "I take it you know him...?"
"That sonuva..." Dana bites her lip. Looking down at her lap, distracted. She looks back up at John. "Tell me everything you—"
Dana's phone buzzes on the desktop.
"Oh, for the love of..." She picks it up, reading the screen. 'COME INTO THE STATION NOW. URGENT. DIRECT ORDER. LT DULLEA'.
"Goddamnit." She shoves the phone into her pocket, then looks back up at John. "Listen, I've got to go. Can I come back later?" Dana gets up to her feet.
"Yes, yes, of course, Detective. Is everything alright?" John rises too.
"Fine. Just fine. Thank you again for your time, Mr. Kato-Smith. Please, please try to think of all the details from your chat with Nick." Dana moves towards the door quickly. It slides open in front of her.
"Yes, I'll do my..."
The door slides shut abruptly.
"...best."
John is left standing alone in his office. A draft from the rapid exit ruffles some papers on his desk.
The interior of a room is seen; it's a large room, coloured white, polished and gleaming. One of the walls is a large curving window, the skyline of Manhattan visible through it. It's evident from the view that the room is very high up; only a handful of buildings come near to its loftiness. In the centre of the room is a long conference table, also white. The room is sparsely decorated. Seated at the table is McCloy, his cane leaning against his chair, his expensive suit slightly stained with tobacco ash. Colm Tracy is standing against the wall behind Ian, leaning against it, hands in his jacket pockets. Tom is next to him, sitting in a chair, biting his fingernails. A single large goon also visible in the background, arms crossed. Ian has a drink in his hand, half empty, a cigar smouldering in an ashtray on the table.
"Where th' f**k is Muloney?"
The goon behind Ian speaks. "Er, boss. I'm Muloney. Mulholland's not 'ere."
"Where th' f**k is Mulholland?" Ian takes a drink.
Colm speaks. "Remember, Ian? His injury? You gave 'im time off."
"Ah. Th' f**kin' injury. Right." Ian takes a drink.
The door into the room slides open. A man is standing in the doorframe, slightly silhouetted by a white light behind him; he's slim and average height. His suit is immaculate and expensive, his black hair perfectly groomed, not a strand out of place. A streak of white cuts along the edge of his part, the only thing breaking the uniform ebony on his scalp. His face is symmetrical and thin, not a single line or distinguishing mark visible in the skin. The features are perfectly ordinary and forgettable, a visage for vanishing in a fog of vague memories. A briefcase hangs by his side. He walks into the room at an even pace, looking straight ahead.
"Hello, Mr. McCloy. I am glad that you chose to see me today."
"Hi, Mr. Shiroi." McCloy holds his drink tightly, knuckles turning white from clenching; he takes a sip. "Want a, er, somethin' t' drink?"
Shiroi steps up to one of the chairs. He places his briefcase down on the floor, next to the chair, perfectly and neatly parallel. He pulls the chair out straight, sits down, pulls it back in. A pause. "No, thank you."
Ian fidgets in his chair. "So what's this, er, what tha hell's this about, then?"
Shiroi stares at Ian for a few moments. "Through your carelessness and recklessness, you have brought to bear two separate investigations into your criminal activities. My superiors feel this reflects negatively on your capabilities."
"'Negatively'?" The hand holding Ian's cigar starts to shake. "Why y—"
Shiroi holds up one of his hands. "Please, Mr. McCloy, do not interrupt." Ian shuts up begrudgingly. Shiroi lowers his hand. He continues. "We entered this arrangement with clear terms for each party; until recently, each party has done as agreed. However, it is the feeling of my superiors that you are not 'holding up your end,' so to speak."
Ian clenches his jaw, most of his frame beginning to shake. "Na' holdin' up my f**kin' end? Ya f**kin' ungrateful..." His cigar breaks apart, crushed in his grip. "N'body f**kin' talks t' me like tha', aon f**kin' tarraing coileach Jap, ní i mo chathair f**kin'."
"An tUasal McCloy, le do thoil calma síos." Shiroi responds, his accent perfect, inflection of the Gaelic flawless. "And, please, refrain from profanity. Let us keep this professional."
Ian's mouth opens, a reply forming in his throat. Slowly, his anger dissipates, his mouth closing. He leans back in his chair. "Listen ta me, ya fu—" He swallows. "Listen. I've held up my end; ya asked fer some f... fer me to get certain things fer ya. And I have. You wanna keep doin' this work in this city, yer gonna hafta work through me. I'm th' only game in town."
"Mr. McCloy, do not overestimate your own power. You are far from the 'only game in town'," McCloy opens his mouth to speak, his eyes wide. "Please, I have not finished. Do not forget, there are many choices for how we get these services. My superiors have options, Mr. McCloy. You do not." Shiroi stares at McCloy. "Now, on to the current business. These investigations. They have gone on too long. My superiors have been more than generous in aiding you in these affairs. However, there was only so much my superiors could do without drawing unwanted attention. We have done our part, Mr. McCloy. Have you done yours?"
Ian swallows hard. "Wha' d'ya mean by that, there?"
"What I mean is have you protected yourself and, by extension, my superiors from the detective and the private investigator?"
Ian sits, sullen. "Aye, the police bitc— er, the police woman ain't gonna be no problem fer long. The PI, well, heh... almost done dealing wit' him, too." Ian takes a gulp from his drink. A few beads of sweat are visible on his forehead. "Tell yer superiors that they won't hafta be worryin' their goo— er, tell 'em I've got thin's covered."
Shiroi regards McCloy for several moments. "For your sake, Mr. McCloy, I hope you are telling the truth." He begins to push his chair back to leave.
"Now, hold on! Ya just spen' last few minutes puttin' my balls in a fu— in a vice. Well, I feel I got th' right to reciprocate. Don't act like I'm th' only one slippin' on th' deal. Which I wasn't, by th' way."
Shiroi settles back into his chair, hands clasped on the table in front of him. "Please, clarify what you are referring to."
"Don't be cheeky, you zip— er, don't be cheeky. What's this I hear about some exec of yours, Kanto-Smith, or somethin', pokin' around? Ya got yer own house to clean up before you—" Shiroi tilts his head slightly. "Er, I mean, you've got a, er, small problem of yer own."
"We are well aware of this issue. Rest assured, my superiors are fully capable of resolving such situations. The only question is, are you capable of dealing with UNSEC and their MPD." Shiroi stares at McCloy.
He pushes his chair straight back, standing up erect, picking up his briefcase as he rises. "One last thing, Mr. McCloy. My superiors are amply compensating you for your services, both materially and financially. Please cease further thefts from our corporation. We would appreciate the Martian and Tharsian wares returned." He pushes the chair back in, turns, and walks towards the door. It slides open. Shiroi pauses just on the other side of the doorframe, then turns around. "Slán go fóill. My superiors will be expecting the next shipment as scheduled." The door slides shut, the last image of Shiroi a silhouette in white.
Ian takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping sweat off of his brow, whispering under his breath. "f**kin' Jap c**tgrabbin' cocksucker..."
Colm uncrosses his arms and steps forward. "Can ya deal with 'em, Ian? The coppers."
"Don't f**kin' talk ta me like that, Colm." Ian finishes what's left of his drink.
"Sorry. I'd just like to know what yer plannin'. Been keeping this one real close to the chest, y'know? Don't usually keep me so in the dark."
"Colm, mo chara d'aois, just gimme a little f**kin' trust. When the time comes, and you'll know when that f**kin' time is, when the f**kin' time comes, you'll know the f**kin' plan, hear me?" Ian slides his empty glass along the top of the conference table.
"I do trust ya Ian."
"I know..." Ian fiddles around with his cane, staring out the windows, taking in the view. His gaze lowers, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly.
Rishon is sitting on a train. The car is grimy but not too crowded. Graffiti is covering half of the car, illustrations of varying degrees of artistry complimented by liberal interpretations of words and letters. The other half is clean. On the border between the painted and cleaned halves, a small robot dangles from the ceiling, suspended from a rail running the length of the car, scrubbing the train.
Rishon's notebook is sitting on his lap. Written on the screen can be seen 'Rimōkai implants in warehouse, Rimōkai financing for McCloy, WHAT'S THE CONNECTION? WHAT'S HE GIVING THEM?' Underneath, he has scrawled 'People? Bodies? WHY?!?! VERIFY.'
He holds his stylus up to his mouth, chewing on the end of it. He writes another line. 'Where do I go now? Need help?'
He stares out the window, at the blurred shapes and colours of the city rushing past, the speed of the mag-lev train distorting the cityscape. The view disappears, replaced by the walls of a tunnel, the train now in the dark.
"Heh, you and me both..." Rishon pats the edge of the window next to him.
He rubs his chin. "Well, suppose there's two people I could get help from..." Rishon looks down at his notebook, the screensaver flashing an image of Dana. He presses the screen with his thumb, bringing his notes back to view. He pulls a small earpiece out of the notebook, putting it in his ear. It starts ringing. The screen proclaims 'CALLING NICK'.
An electronic voice comes back, tinny. "The customer you are attempting to contact is unavailable. Please, leave a message after the beep."
"Nick? You passed out already? Screening my calls again?" Rishon glances at the cleaning robot, a couple of kids visible behind it, sitting in the newly cleaned section. "Or just too busy cleaning the scum of the streets? Anyways, we need to talk. I'm gonna come find you soon."
Rishon puts his earpiece back into the notebook, the screen displaying the time, 13:50. He stretches out his legs. The train car is now completely clean, the robot beginning to move on to the next one down.
In the far corner, the kids have scrawled a crude drawing, a robot vomiting a double helix.
Rishon looks back at the cleaning robot, now in the next car. He laughs.
The train is seen from the outside, exiting the tunnel. It pulls into a station, slowing to a stop, high above the ground-level streets. Several aircraft fly by, banking between the buildings. A few blocks away, the MPD HQ tower can be seen. The doors on the train slide open. People begin shuffling in and out.
Rishon checks the time on his notebook again. 14:22. He puts his notebook away, tapping his knee. He looks back down towards his pocket. He pulls the notebook out again. 14:22.
"f**k it." He taps on his screen, pulling up a map of Manhattan, Rishon's current location marked on it. A password is entered, and then a loading bar appears. 'LOCATING...'
Rishon keeps tapping his finger against his knee, fiddling with his paper-and-pen notebook with the other hand.
A location comes up on the screen, a beeping blip on the map a few blocks away from Rishon's blip. He looks at the screen. He looks out the window at the MPD HQ, a beam of sunlight reflecting off of its higher windows, catching flakes of falling snow.
Dana glances out the window next to her. Through the glass, the city can be seen, a mag-lev station a few blocks away. She's walking through a hallway filled with cops in uniforms and plainclothes. She enters the door labeled 'ORGANIZED CRIME SQUAD', it sliding open on her approach.
Inside, the detectives of the OCS are in a hubbub. Talking amongst themselves, scrawling out notes and typing away at their computers. Banai is leaning against a wall, her arms crossed. She glances at Dana as she enters the room.
Dullea comes out of his office, walking towards Dana. "Good morning, Detective Cohen. Nice of you to, ah, to finally drop in."
"Lieutenant." Dana nods her head. "What's this about? You pulled me out of an interview. Why's everyone so excited?"
Dullea clears his throat, adjusting the tie he has hanging off his neck. "You... ahem. Er, you haven't heard?"
Dana crosses her arms and stares down Dullea.
For once, he meets her stare. Barely. "JLC finished their investigation. We have warrants. We're mobilizing to take down the Irish syndicate."
Dana's eyebrows cock.
"You, uh, you have the most experience with the case. You're leading the assault."
Rishon stands in the street a few blocks away from the MPD HQ, notebook resting upon his mittened hand. Around him, the street is busy; cars and people and aircraft cramming up the road and sidewalk and sky. Scattered throughout is a fair number of patrol vehicles and uniformed cops, bundled up against the cold. A faint white steamy haze is rising from the sidewalks, the collective breath of the masses exhaled on a cold winter's day.
Rishon looks down at the screen on his notebook. The beeping blip of Nick's location is off of the main thoroughfare. He looks back up, then trudges forth, into an alley, always following the beeping blip.
He gets further off of the road. There's no one around now. Concern creeps onto his face.
He looks down at his notebook again. His blip and Nick's blip are almost superimposed. He looks up again. "Nick? Hey, Nick, are you here?"
Rishon takes another step forward. His foot strikes something on the pavement, partially covered with a light dusting of snow. He reaches down, and picks it up with his mittened hand.
A single bullet casing.
Rishon looks up again sharply. His mouth hangs slightly open. Faster, now he moves through the snow, approaching a corner ahead. He's running by the time he rounds it.
He finds Nick's car, perforated and shattered. Beside it, on the pavement, lies Nick's hat and gun, both covered in a light dusting of snow.
Rishon looks over the car and pavement. Only a few drops of blood are seen.
He kneels down, picking up Nick's hat. He holds it in front of him as he looks around, alone in the alleyway.
