Chapter Text
Viktor leans forward, puts more weight into his elbow to keep the ruler flat and in place as he traces a line, quick and precise, against it. He pulls back, adjusts it down against the thick page, and repeats the process.
He doesn’t need to be working on this right now. In fact, he actually needs to be going through the folder of papers on the other side of his desk. But he hasn’t heard from J in almost two weeks, and this filtration system will need an intricate metal casing to be safely placed inside a home… eventually. Sure, there is still much more chemical analysis to be done before he even considers full fabrication of a prototype, but J will be excited to be brought in so early. He’ll probably think of some infuriatingly brilliant adjustment that will inspire Viktor in a way no one else ever manages.
And, if that brilliant adjustment is surrounded by silly musings on J’s mother, a detailed summary of some new restaurant he tried, or an update on his sister’s training as an Enforcer, well… Viktor will be glad to know his friend is doing well. Not that they are friends, exactly. The term is likely too familiar for someone he’s only exchanged professional correspondence with, someone he pays for their expert craftsmanship and keeps writing for the extra insights offered free of charge.
He glances over to the drawer where he keeps their letters, itching to open and look through them. Again.
It still bothers him that he hadn’t saved the first few, that he can’t look back at that initial project he commissioned from the Talis’ forge and see just when all that warmth started to bleed into the pages.
Not for the first time, he considers his strange luck that J, out of the no doubt half-dozen or so employed fabricators, was assigned his missive. How someone so fascinatingly intelligent ended up toiling away on metal work for the benefit of some Piltovian House still brings a frown to Viktor’s face. Though, he supposes, not everyone has his luck—and careful planning—to be in the right location, at the right time, for the head of the Academy to stumble upon them.
The reminder has Viktor sighing and setting his drafting tools aside.
Even with his latest contributions to making good on the Twin City Accords, his hours teaching, and the grants he’s secured for some of his own projects, a not insignificant amount of his salary is still dependent on Heimerdinger's willingness to keep him on as an assistant. The Dean’s been accommodating of the changes in Viktor’s available time, both for his projects and his recovery from each step of the medical trial. The least Viktor can do is give his attention accordingly.
Besides, the blueprints he’s making up are terribly premature, and pointless, insomuch that they will change at least ten times before J even begins suggesting materials. They are a flimsy excuse for contact, a concession to Viktor’s longing, and better set aside, tucked into a drawer he only opens well after hours.
He rolls them up tight, not caring if they smudge enough to render the paper useless. Wasteful, but he has been in this city long enough that some of its worse qualities have started rubbing off.
There is always more paper.
Case in point: the sheer volume of it tucked into a tightly bound cardstock folder and yet bearing no information at all. Much is blocked out, entire pages cutting off with clearly missing continuations that imply its subject must have done something quite scandalous to merit his expulsion. No matter how Viktor held them up to the light, no matter the casual questions he posed to a few older colleagues, he can’t glean much at all to prepare himself for the appeal process Heimerdinger asked him to oversee.
And, if the name of the affected student is the reason he’s been so distracted since receiving the assignment, if the House emblem on the seal has seen him up late the last few days (rereading order summaries and alloy options like a favorite novel), it is entirely his own business.
“You know better than most how much progress the Talis’ forge has worked in aid of the last few years. I’m sure you're brimming with excitement to help bring Jayce back into the fold,” Heimerdinger had told him, handing off the folder last week as they’d discussed the few important requests Viktor prescreened for him. As though Viktor’s care for the Talis house has anything to do with its head and not the happenstance of its employing one of the brightest minds Viktor has the pleasure to know.
Truly, Viktor cares very little about this task. He knows, in a way so few proper uppercity citizens would admit, that the people producing the value for these Houses never have much to do with the family themselves. J has done more to earn a house name in the last year than this 'Jayce' has likely done his entire life. Viktor expects this Mr. Talis knows very little about the physicality behind all the beautiful metal crafts funding whatever pampered life he’s been living since his mysterious dismissal. Oh, he’ll be able to expound at length about the monetary value of each ounce of steel and—even if his grades leave much to be desired—may know something about the theoretical aspects of forge work. But if he has actually held a hammer for more than a photo, Viktor will be shocked.
With a great, heaving sigh, Viktor grabs the folder and looks across the room at the clock. Their meeting is not for another hour, but he moves to stand anyway. Even on his good days, it takes time to make the journey to his assistant office and he’s not doing anything productive here. The old lab he’d been given is nearly on the complete opposite end of campus, a selection that feels malicious, for all that he knows it was merely born of the usual thoughtlessness so common in a place where few are ever touched by the consequences of their overindulgence and progress.
Today is not a bad day, per se, but his last treatment was not long ago and he always feels so… fragile the week after. He leans into his crutch, a concession he is less troubled by for how little need he has of it during the longer and longer stretches between each trial procedure. With his spinal fusion last year, the full leg brace he designed himself, and the, admittedly miraculous, results of the trial, his cane is often more than enough to keep his posture sure and comfortable.
The crutch is nice though, sturdy and intricate, an expensive bit of delicate metal and leather that warms him even as he steps into the chilly spring breeze blowing through the courtyard.
He’d personally insisted on the forge selected for the commission, pulled what little rank he had to ensure that familiar, symmetrical T would be stamped onto the handle. It’s impossible for him to know who ultimately built it; he can’t guarantee that at some point J’s hands ran over the same corners, but he imagines all the same. In his fantastical mind's eye, J had known and demanded to see to the construction himself, despite the lack of Viktor’s usual signature, despite only the tiniest amount of his own handwriting being included for aesthetic notes. He presses his palm into the plush leather of the handle and pictures work rough fingers, broad, powerful shoulders and kind, brilliant eyes; imagines the care that went into every detail like a caress against his skin.
It’s unlikely, as absurd as the romantic novels Viktor pretends he doesn’t read, but it has him standing straighter and walking sturdier all the same. Perhaps he can go over those blueprints again after the meeting, pointlessness be damned.
_________________
Jayce hops down from the carriage, pulling the large box closer and then hefting it up after a wave of thanks to the driver. He spins around and takes a deep, bracing breath of the crisp afternoon air. The whole place smells like chilled water and early spring blooms, the scent-memory catching hard in his chest as he hears the wheels of the carriage clicking away on the cobblestone.
It’s been nearly five years since he last stood here and, for a moment, nothing at all seems changed. The grounds are as tidy as ever, the uniforms identical, and the unknown faces of students and faculty shuffling between the buildings are, admittedly, familiar too. He’d been too caught up in his own pursuits to learn many of the names of his classmates. If they never worked with him, or didn’t make a nuisance of themselves, they simply blended into the background.
Now, though, it’s Jayce who goes largely ignored. Perhaps oddly well dressed for a courier, but the box in front of him does well to cover the suit, and he can guess many of the fleeting glances are only sent his way because he’s stood stock still in the middle of the road. His skin buzzes, a trickle of sweat threatens the back of his neck, and he has to take another deep breath before he can get himself moving again.
The day is finally here, in more ways than one.
He pulls the box harder into himself, legs working him forward like perpetual automatons who know the way much better than his mind. Everything is so familiar, the path etched down precisely so the ball of his momentum can roll him forward into the large archway of the main entrance. The white walls, the delicate panes of glass, and that feeling, that omnipresent hum of knowledge just at his fingertips, has him looking around in wide eyed wonder. He may as well be a first year student again for all his gawking, awed once more by the potential of this place.
For so long after that terrible week, he’d not even allowed himself hope of being here again. He’d focused on making things right, on turning his hands to creation, and ‘learning from it,’ as that unfamiliar voice had told him, pitiless and echoing in him ever since. Sometimes, late at night or in the early, dark hours of morning, he can still see the explosion behind his eyes. Can see the smoke and the injuries, hear Powder crying and smell the charred flesh of Vi’s arm, so strong that he almost retches—as he had that night. The hollow grey of that boy’s eyes and the feel of Vander’s hand on his shoulder, heavy and pulling him out without the body, feel as real now as they hadn’t that night.
Every image keeps him working. It’s why he wants this so much again, why, when he saw a path opening, a real chance to make the difference he always hoped, he took it with both hands.
Working with Professor V has been a balm and an inspiration and, if Jayce can convince Heimerdinger that he’s made amends for his mistakes, will be something he can finally do properly. No more written letters, no more trying to pour all of himself into every piece of parchment in hopes that somehow, someway, he can do something with his learned lesson.
“Excuse me,” Jayce calls to a young woman walking past him. She glances over, papers piled high in her arms, coiled hair wild at the edges, and glasses slightly askew on her nose. He smiles, hunches so he’s not towering so far over her, and continues, “I’m looking for Professor V?”
“V?” she asks with a blink, still walking and voice harried in a way that brings forth memories of his own past exam seasons.
“Uh, yes. I’m, well…” He shifts his box higher, hoping he’s not made a mistake assuming the Engineering wing was the best place to find his friend. Professor V seems to work in a half dozen different fields, but all their projects were technically mechanical in nature.
“Oh, you’re a courier from the Talis’ forge?” she guesses, pulling her papers precariously closer to her chest so she can gesture with a newly freed hand. “The lab is just around the corner there.”
He follows her pointed finger, then glances back and opens his mouth to correct her, but she’s still shuffling away, pressing up her glasses and waving him on.
“Sorry, sorry, I can’t sign, I’m running late. Just leave it on the table in the back corner if he’s not in there. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Ah, sure, uh-”
She rounds a corner and is gone before he can thank her. He blinks, staring down the empty hallway for a long moment, and then, with a harsh swallow, swings back around towards the lab. His shoulders pull back, the box creaks slightly against his harsh grip, and when he breathes out, it rattles.
The simple door stares back at him.
Today is the day. Of the tasks he came here for, this is the one that’s been keeping him up the last few nights. Once again, he doubts his choice not to spell this all out in a letter, to not schedule a specific time for sharing this with someone he knows he’s pinning far too much hope and affection on. He just can’t help it, can’t stop the way his heart skips a beat at every new order, at every small little sliver of personal information that slips through in their letters.
After everything Professor V has done for him, after all the trust and invigorating discovery he’s invited Jayce into, there’s no way he can do this except in person. They’ve gone long enough with just ink and parchment, too long without each other’s faces. He wants to look the man in the eyes when he tells him how much this all has meant to him, how he’s been saving and toiling away for years to have the chance to work with him properly. He wants to stand there, plead his case, and offer his dedicated service up without the shield of words and postmen between them.
The stark black lettering on the door declaring this “LAB E02” doesn't move or shake, even as Jayce feels the ground beneath him shudder. The handle is tilted, slightly loose where it connects to the partially askew door, and cool to the touch as Jayce takes it in hand. Some of his alloy samples clink softly together at the shifting, but he doesn’t hear them, everything is the perfect quiet of the room, the grey of late afternoon only seeping in from one far window.
It’s empty. And if there was any other door around this corner, he’d be clinging to the hope that he was in the wrong place.
He’s not; he knows.
Because there, above the far desk he’d been directed to, is an achingly familiar set of blueprints, pinned to the wall like his mother used to pin his drawings up in the kitchen. The very first project the academy commissioned. He can see his own edits, the circles and arrows of his annoyed scrawl at the impracticality of their initial design, and the small rant he’d filled in on one margin about their proposed material selections.
It had so much potential and wasn’t living up to it.
And Professor V kept it, hung it up even though he’d sent a new set, and then another, as they perfected the housing design in a rush of near daily mailings. That was almost three years ago… and now, that final filtration system is installed in forty separate locations across Zaun. Jayce sees two every time he goes down to visit the kids and can’t help but beam at the large ‘T’ stamped over the metal cages. He always wonders at the lack of any other house insignia, the presence of only the academy seal at the base of the intake valve.
His shoulders ease as he sets his cargo aside, behind a stack of folders so it doesn’t block any part of the blueprints. He traces over the edge of it, calluses catching over the wrinkles creasing the edges. When he’d rolled it back up, he hadn’t been particularly gentle.
It makes him smile, big and full enough to have his chest puffing out.
Still, though, he wishes the room wasn’t empty. Wishes he’d forgone the grand gesture of a surprise and just asked to meet. It wouldn’t have been that unexpected, surely, even if they weren’t working on anything specific right now. Even if he’d sat staring at a blank page for the past week trying to think of some reason to reach out.
It’s too late for any of that now, though, so he glances around for a bit of parchment to leave a note and that’s when he sees it.
Stark white chalk on a blackboard as tall as himself, certainly not all that notable in a workspace of this size, but the elegant equations filling almost the entirety of it have Jayce stepping closer. It’s on the clear other end of the lab, bracketed on either side by two more cluttered work surfaces, and Jayce wonders at just how many team members Professor V must work with.
Part of him worries at the feasibility of his dream to become one of them, but the rest of him is utterly caught by the perfect simplicity of what he’s reading over. It’s inspired, truly. Harsh lines marching along the surface and telling an almost artistic story of rotational velocities and electrostatic charges. The potential of even longer life spans for the collection plates and the specialized mitigation of any harmful off gassing has Jayce scouring each line with wide eyes.
It is the kind of thing that makes him feel both utterly idiotic for not thinking of it himself and completely enthralled by anyone having figured it out at all. There are almost no eraser marks, as though the entire system birthed itself clean and complete onto the blackboard. He’s smiling, absorbed in its beauty and pleasantly following it along, when, with a sudden cacophony like crashing metal, the final equation screeches to a halt.
There’s an error: small, easy to miss. A misuse of a conventional constant, and a dropped exponent a step later exacerbating the issue. Jayce skims ahead and sees how everything falls apart until the neat lines spiral out in a frustrated swirl of anger. He instinctively reaches for the eraser block, hand already lifted up to the first mistake before he stops to consider himself.
He can’t be certain this is Professor V’s work, even if the surety of the lines feels familiar. Besides, taking it upon himself to fix the error could be pressing a step too far, especially when he has so much hope riding on their relationship.
His eyes scan to either desk beside him, to the stacks of papers and assortment of metal tools strewn over them, and then back to the angry scribble on the board. With a bite to his lip, he inches his hand closer and looks at the error again. It’s so obvious, glaring and ugly in a way he just can’t bring himself to ignore. He lies to himself and insists he’d want the correction done if he’d gotten so frustrated with a problem himself.
The lines following the error aren’t really salvageable either, so he just swipes wide along the entire expanse of the board and gets everything backed up to the moment of breakdown. His shoulders relax and he swaps the block for a thin bit of chalk, picking up with his messier scrawl and letting the equations guide him along.
It’s thrilling, watching as the correction bends everything back into the order that caught him at first glance. The steps march along, expressions collapsing down and combining exactly as he’s sure the initial conductor intended. A few times he has to stop and close his eyes to recall an axiom, to pull out a dusty bit of knowledge he’d lost track of in his years without practiced study. But, each time is easier than the last and by the time he’s bunching up towards the bottom of the board, he’s got a resolution that makes him grin.
He can’t stop the motion of his hand from finishing the proof, pressing the customary dotted triangle at the end of it and then twisting his wrist over to initial beside it.
Then he steps back and looks over the entire expression with delight. This will make such a difference and he can already imagine what fabrication will be needed to go into a device capable of making good on the theories. He almost wants to start diagraming, brainstorming, and wishes all the more fiercely that Prof. V was here with him so they could start this new project… together. Right now.
But, he has too many other things to accomplish today for that to be a possibility.
The thought brings him up short as he fumbles into his front pocket for his time piece. As expected, he’s whiled away much more time on this spontaneous problem solving than intended, and he curses at how few minutes he now has to make it across campus for his meeting.
His eyes fly around the room, scanning for some way to leave a note, but he can feel the anxiety from earlier bubbling up his throat. With another curse, he shoves the watch back into his pocket and hopes the signature on the board will be enough.
He’ll stop by after, or write him a letter tonight apologizing for his boldness. For now, all he can do is hope his frantic speed walking doesn’t ruin the lines of his freshly pressed suit.
_________________
“-after the exam, your proposal will be reviewed by at least three professors and, of course, the Dean himself. Should you complete all the steps on schedule and to their satisfaction, we may still have time to enroll you with this fall’s cohort.”
Mr. Talis smiles and nods along. His eyes stay on Viktor even as his charcoal scratches along the open face of the notebook he holds in one hand. Viktor can still recall the surprising strength and roughness of that very palm during their introduction. Though, admittedly, he’d been mostly trying to ignore the dampness of it, and the wild way the man had flown into the room.
He’d been several minutes late, flushed, and careening in so dramatically that Viktor’s crutch had fallen from its lean against the wall and he’d not been able to retrieve it, nor stand, before that big hand was clasped over his. Jayce Talis was apologetic, spluttering out near incomprehensible excuses: something about an old professor or helping some courier find a lab. Truthfully, Viktor hadn’t been able to follow any of it and had cut the man off swiftly with an instruction to sit.
And he’d done so like a scolded child, hunching himself so small that Viktor almost thought him a first year student, not a man well on his way to thirty.
Very little of this Mr. Talis lines up to Viktor’s expectations. He’s dressed nicely, in a clearly expensive suit cut to fit him exactly, but the fabric around his elbows and wrist is worn enough to suggest its singularity in his wardrobe. His hair is slicked back expertly, but the strands that fell forward from his rushing here are long and uneven in some places. Viktor wonders if those thick fingers fumbled with the scissors, if he always cuts it himself or if he nervously did a trim for this meeting specifically.
He is handsome, in a beautiful sort of way. Like someone carved him from stone and then smoothed it over with malleable clay. When he speaks, there is a confidence to every word that never quite pushes into cockiness, but annoys Viktor all the same. The gap between his front teeth is so boyishly charming that Viktor almost wants to like him.
Instead, he is professional, curt and to the point. He lays out the steps, asks the pertinent questions, and tries to spend very little time scanning over the breadth of those shoulders, the sharpness of that jawline.
How someone so idealistically perfect was not able to talk himself out of the initial expulsion nearly drives Viktor mad with curiosity. He hasn’t quite found a way to ask for more details.
“So soon?” Mr. Talis asks. “That’s great news.”
Viktor nods politely, shuffling through a few papers so he can look away from the truly blinding smile the man shines at him. It only makes his face all the more attractive and Viktor already feels exhausted by it all. He breathes deeply and re-stacks an otherwise orderly bunch of papers.
“Now, I suggest you begin working on assembling any letters of recommendation and drafting your own declaration of intent.”
“Of course. I do have a few people in mind,” Talis tells him, sitting back and slipping his writing stick into the loop on the edge of the notebook before closing it. “As I’m sure you know, the Talis forge has been fortunate enough to partner with the academy on several projects now, I-”
“It would be best to include professors that have experience working with you as a student,” Viktor cuts in, a dread settling into his core at the very thought. If he has to pretend and fawn at this man for the skills of his employee, Viktor will certainly break something.
“Ah, right.” Talis blinks and Viktor realizes his voice may have betrayed more of his annoyance than intended.
He breathes again, forces his eyes to crinkle in some imitation of a smile and continues more calmly, “You are seeking re-enrollment based on your merits as a scholar, not a, eh, businessman, yes?”
The twitch of Talis’ thick brows is surprising. The palpable annoyance in his gaze is unexpected, but more than that, it is the way it recedes back so quickly that catches Viktor's eye. This man is surprisingly interesting and Viktor takes some solace in knowing he will at least not be wholly bored during this exercise. His curiosity at the circumstance of the expulsion only grows.
“Yes, I suppose you’re correct.” Talis pulls the notebook close to his chest and does some strange little seated bow, before moving to stand and reaching a hand out. It’s much sturdier than his last attempt at a shake and Viktor appreciates the actual choice of taking it. Not that he could really get around the social expectation, but it's the small things in a place like this.
“Thank you for your time. I’ll get working on the letters and look forward to meeting with you again.”
“Hm.” Viktor manages, and then, perhaps because his curiosity is a vicious thing, perhaps because this man is so startlingly attractive, Viktor adds, foolishly, “I’m also happy to assist with the declaration if needed.”
Talis is clearly startled, his hand lingers in Viktor's grasp and slides out so slowly he can feel each individual callous as it slips along his palm. Talis blinks, tilts his head, and smiles. It’s different from the others, warm like the sun in high summer, and it hooks up under Viktor's ribs harshly.
“I might take you up on that, Mister Viktor.”
It’s the first time he’s said Viktor's name and it does not matter; Viktor does not know him and, hopefully, will only see him for the few weeks this whole process requires. He wants to hear it again like a sharp ache in his teeth.
“Feel free,” Viktor replies. Then Mr. Talis is doing his odd bow again and spewing another quick thank you as he backs out the door.
Viktor truly has no idea what to make of him, but he feels a smile tugging at the edge of his own lips before he quickly schools it away. It’s unfortunate, but even Viktor can admit that Jayce Talis certainly has the charm expected of someone of his station. All the better for riding on the backs of others, he supposes.
A glance at the clock has him blowing out a frustrated breath, the window at the back of the office shows the sun is starting its daily descent, and he knows the last courier will have finished making their rounds before he manages to get back to the lab. Let alone him getting his thoughts in order enough to actually have something worth sending to J. After this strange bumbling meeting, Viktor would like nothing more than to read a rambling bit of history on forge work or an in-depth exposition on the merits of tungsten as a gold alternative. Alas, the time since their last correspondence is meant to stretch ever longer it seems, and Viktor sighs as he bends to pull his crutch from its slump behind the desk.
There is plenty enough work to be done here still, even with his early arrival, but Viktor feels entertaining Heimerdinger’s latest special request merits putting off reading through inane requests another day. None of it will be particularly noteworthy, he’s sure, so another day of wallowing on his least preferred desk will do them little harm.
He nods in silent farewell and shuffles into his overcoat to begin the tediously long walk back across campus. At least there are fewer people out this late in the afternoon, no students to stop him with pleas for an extension or colleagues to pull him into standing in the middle of the hall for pointless small talk. Still, he’s stiff from working late yesterday and his knee has been acting up with the wet weather for the last week, so he stops more than once to sit and rub some life back into it.
He’s glad to know it will be a solid four months before his next treatment; this lingering fatigue does not suit him and he truly has little time for it. Not if he wants to get a workable idea together for J or make any kind of progress on his scholarship proposal before the council hearing.
The lab is still lit when he finally reaches it and he opens the door with a curious, “Miss Young?”
She’s not inside, though he sees a warm mug sitting on her desk and shakes his head fondly. Her thesis proposal shows great promise and he’s glad someone with such bold ideas has the work ethic to see them through. If the scholarship plan comes to even half the fruition he hopes for, he knows the list of research proposals he’ll have to sift through will finally be worth spending time on, possibly enough for him to bother properly mentoring more students than just her.
Too many of those already here are just hoping to ride the tide of progress and capitalize on what money can still be extracted from the undercity in the guise of furthering the restoration movement. They’ve never had to breathe in the thickness of the Fissures or try and force life into the toxic soil with the vain hope of feeding their families.
He shakes his head, setting his satchel atop the desk he’s been using for grading and turns with every intention of fixing his own warm drink.
The blackboard next to him has been utterly unchanged and largely ignored for some days now, to the point that he almost reflexively keeps his gaze away from the frustration of it. Something is off though, the white of the chalk is harsher, filling up a larger portion than it had just hours ago. He stops short, steps closer to scan over the change, and his eyes widen the more of it he takes in.
It’s concise, perfect, exactly as elegant as he’d thought it would be when he first started working on the proof. Some of the text is wobbly, messy in a few places, but that hardly matters, not when the issue that’s been plaguing him is now solved like a gentle gift from some benevolent deity he never once believed in.
The door creaks, but he doesn’t look up, still taking in the ramifications of such an exact resolution.
“Evening, sir,” he hears through the haze, just loud enough to get him blinking and forcing his eyes away. He grins brightly enough that wide eyes meet him in something like wondering confusion.
“When did you have the time to correct this, Miss Young?” he asks, shuffling over towards her, gesturing back at it with excitement. “I had no idea you were so familiar with electrochemistry.”
“I-” She starts, a flush blooming over her cheeks and fingers nervously fluttering up to fix her perfectly placed glasses. Viktor furrows his brow in response, and she follows his gesture to the blackboard, before continuing, “I’m not.”
She’s blinking at the board and then him as he reaches her station.
“There’s no need to worry. I’m glad you saw to correcting it yourself,” Viktor tries to reassure. He’s only been advising Miss Young since late fall, but he’s grown accustomed to her general nervousness.
“I-I didn’t,” she insists, looking at the board again with a pinch in her brow. “I thought you finished it today. I was in exams most of the afternoon.”
“You didn’t?” Viktor asks incredulously, turning back to the perfect equation. The two lower classmen that sometimes assist here are both off for their first spring exam season. No one else would have reason to stop by, let alone linger long enough to even read his fumbling attempts at the problem.
He sees Ms. Young shake her head out of the corner of his eye and feels some strange thrill building under his skin at the mystery of it all. His eyes scan over the board, fall to the little end marker in the far corner, and stick to the peculiar backwards pi symbol nestled just beside it.
“If not you, then who?”