heroeswork | I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

Billy stepped out of his building hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even without anyone really knowing his face, he still wore sunglasses and kept his head down. If it weren't the middle of a hot summer day, he would have added a hat and a high-collared jacket as was demanded of him.

He wasn't happy. Far from it. They were in the heart of New York City. Just like he'd always dreamed. He was selling records like crazy. He had droves of fans. Always top of the charts. More than most people could ever achieve at the young age of 22. But it all seemed like it was happening to someone else. Because he only ever saw the studio or his home. Even after moving to New York a few months ago, he still didn't actually see anyone who liked his music. Because he was forbidden from performing. From even having his photo on his albums. Not even his real name appeared anywhere. He was billed as "CHAOS" and nothing more.

He wasn't supposed to even be outside. His manager forbid it unless he was present as well. But he was off dealing with some business for the day and Billy couldn't stand staying cooped up another moment. He bought a copy of Rolling Stone off the news vendor and ducked into a coffee shop. He found a dim corner away from everyone else as he sipped at his drink. He shoved his sunglasses on top of his head as he flipped opened the magazine. He was after a specific article, listed on the cover.

"True CHAOS" the headline yelled in bold, red letters. The subheading added "Fans and journalists alike demand 'Who is He?!'" The article went on to detail the mystery surrounding his own career. Statements from fans. Attempts to stalk the studio. Pleas for information. An analysis of his music trying to guess at what his accent when when he wasn't singing.

Billy scrubbed at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand.

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"My best friend is dying," Mark says. He's not thinking, he's not too detatched like he normally is, he's full of emotion and he's not even sure where it came from. All of the stress, all of the anguish has finally got to him over the last year. Maureen. Mimi dying. Roger going, too. Angel and Colins going the same way, eventually.

"He's dying and there's nothing I can do about it, and I made a stupid promise to myself that I can't keep because I wanted to keep him happy. CHAOS is his biggest influence and he was talking about how mysterious they are and I kind of thought if I could get a message to him somehow, I could find him Roger'd like that but I can't so I was frustrated and I took it out on some random guy I never met and--"

He cuts off abruptly, as his voice was growing more and more frantic. He really was losing his shit, not just his touch, and Mark forces himself--wills himself--to calm down.

"--If you work for the same company than maybe, maybe you can contact him, or them, or whatever--just some sort of message to somehow give to Roger."

Everything just stopped. The rest of the world came to an abrupt and sudden stop. It may have fallen away to a blank white void for all it mattered to Billy. Never before had he heard of his music, even the watered down version the studio insisted on, moving someone to such a degree. He was only allowed to know the highlights of the fan letters he received, and never got any of the gifts. To hear it so raw and so close, it made it almost difficult to breathe.

He didn't know how, but he had to do something. Just hearing that, in the midst of being so frustrated and so angry, when he'd been feeling so stifled, he felt so incredibly moved. Moved and inspired.

He forced himself to breathe. To think. He was supposed to be just a PA. Which would mean a long shot. He could spin a story. He could DO something. He'd have to get away from Higgins, though. He could mask it as working on a song. But he could never send out a letter or sneak off until Higgins was guaranteed to be gone, and without leaving security detail behind to babysit.

He managed a weak, strained smile, trying to mask how stunned he was. "I...could try to do something. I don't...really have access to CHAOS myself, things are pretty locked down, but I could try to get a word through. Is there somewhere I can contact you, uh..." he still didn't know the guy's name.

Mark stared. For once, things were going alright. For once, things were looking up. There had to be a catch, there just had to be, but--but he so very wanted to believe this was true.

He has to stay guarded with things. Mark knows this, knows he has a problem with this. Too much of an observer, waiting for the moment the plot twist happens to realize it happens to him. He wants to be suspicious. Wary.

Mark starts to laugh. "Mark. Mark Cohen, I--oh, God. Even just trying. I can't thank you enough--" He digs through his pockets, wishing he had business cards or something cool like that. Eventually, he finds an eyeliner pencil (Angel borrowing his pants no doubt) and a receipt for a pharmacy from picking up Roger's prescription.

He writes the number with a quick 'Mark & Roger - camera guy' so the other would remember who he was. He doesn't realize he's laughing and smiling.

"Here. Here, just... Wow. I was ready to just give up today, and this..." This is fate.

Billy smiled and managed to hold himself back. He wanted to tell Mark the feeling was mutual, in a way. He'd been on the brink of either just rolling over and letting Higgins do whatever he wanted and just out-right quitting, even if it meant violating his contract. Which would mean giving up all rights to his music and resigning himself to living with basically nothing, because a clause in his contract still prevented him from working with other labels for a number of years. But now? Now he had the strength and inspiration to keep going, and keep fighting.

He glanced at the number before shoving it into his pocket. "Thanks, Mark," he tried to sound neutral about it. "I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

He's forgotten about it by the time Billy calls. It's been weeks and Mark has already settled on the idea he was being preyed upon by someone who liked fucking around with him. Besides, he had a few things he was caught up in.

Between all of them working to help Roger out, they managed something else. A protest. Maureen's idea, of course, because on top of that it looked like Mark and Roger and Collins and--hell all of them--were getting evicted. Again.

They'd fight. They always did.

The point was that Mark barely got time to shoot anything for his footage, let alone think about a phone call. He's in the middle of trying to figure out how much money he'll get if he sells his film production stuff when the phone rings.

"Speaaaaak," Roger and Mark's voices together closely followed by the tone, and it's only when Mark realizes who it is that he picks up the phone and apologizes. They decide to meet, and Mark is very careful about where. Chooses a spot near but not in Alphabet City and the tent quarter so Billy doesn't have to go into the shadier part of town, and chooses a park because Mark can't pay for a damn thing like a drink at the moment. He arrives, on his bike at the promised time, and catches sight of the other.

"Heeey, you're actually here!"

It had been a rough couple of weeks for Billy, as well. He'd beat Higgins back to the apartment, but not Casey. He'd found the body guard waiting for him, with that sour look on his face. Then the terrifying hours and days that followed, waiting for something to be said. It was hard to get time alone, to work on writing something for Roger. And even when he did, he was stumped.

It wasn't until he pulled out that bit of paper that something shifted. He considered calling Mark and saying he had nothing. Or just throwing it away. Maybe it was better that way. But then he ended up turning it over and seeing just what the paper was. He had to ask what AZT meant for medications. And he felt the bottom of everything drop out. Roger was dying of AIDS? On a rush of sadness and inspiration, he locked himself away in his room and set to writing. It took him a few days to perfect the letter, but he had something.

It was a while before Billy had a chance to slip out again. Higgins was off doing things for the company again, but Casey was there. "Protecting" him. With some careful planning, he was able to call Mark and convince Casey to go for a walk. The park was perfect. Claiming he needed fresh air and something new for inspiration. Casey made him add a baseball cap to his sunglasses, but reluctantly agreed to go out. And once they got to the park, Casey grumbled something about feeling peckish and telling Billy to not wandering too far. While conveniently turning his back.

Billy arrived at the agreed spot at almost the same time as Mark. He grinned, looking around. But Mark was alone. He'd hoped he could actually meet Roger. "Yeah. Almost didn't make it, boss being a hard ass and all. But..." He took a big breath. "I've got good news and I've got bad news."

Mark's grinning. He can't help but grinning, plopping off of his bike rather unceremoniously. This is real. He's trying not to act too giddy, trying not to look like a total loser.

...Then again, hasn't Mark long since embraced the fact that he is, in fact, a total loser?

"Lay it on me," He expresses. The fact that someone was there didn't seem to occur to him--he didn't even notice. Instead, he's leaning on his bike, glasses slightly askew as he waits expectantly. Billy--he had the guts to show up. To call him. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten," He says after a small beat, before the other can talk. Now he can tell Roger.

"Not in the least!" Billy proclaimed. "It just took a while to work things out and I didn't want to pester you with updates that were all just waiting, you know?" A total lie, but he couldn't exactly share the truth.

"The good news is..." From his back pocket, he pulled an envelope with Roger's name scrawled on it. "I've got something for your friend. But the bad news comes in two parts." He lifted his chin, as if it were going to be grave. "I've been sworn to deliver it to Roger myself. And for the second part, I'm kind of just on a really short break." He glanced toward Casey who was still at the hot dog cart. He was taking an awfully long time, which was odd for Casey. "Personal business on company time, and such."

"That's--" Amazing. He reaches out to grab it before realizing what he was doing--if something's handed to him, he's going to take it. It's not his place though, but mostly he's just shocked. Can't help it.

"Yeaaaah, but I don't live near here, I'm on Avenue A." There's no way they're going to get a cab and it's not that far a walk, but he has no idea if Billy has even been to his part of town. The artists alleys, so to speak.

Still, he knows the whole two thing. "I mean--assuming you wanted to see him. And deliver that. But I can definitely just take it, it's not going anywhere if you have to go back to your corporate hell job." The latter had come out without realizing it.

The comment didn't really rattle Billy, he was too disheartened by what came before it. And it shown plainly on his face, his shoulders falling. He didn't know the city well enough to know where Avenue A even was, but it didn't sound like it was all that accessible.

A paranoia on the level for his PR manager started to set in. This was starting to sound like a set up. This guy, with a camera, shows up and starts asking him very pointed questions about his music. Then he blurts out a sob story about a dying friend. He even hands over subtle but convenient proof of a fatal illness. And now, trying to get the letter without the friend present. Logically, Roger couldn't make it due to his illness. But...would a reporter be this underhanded? Set up a ploy like this to get word from the artist himself?

He slowly pulled his hand back, not wanting to look like he was snatching the letter away from Mark's grasp. This was all a really stupid idea. "No...I promised I'd deliver it to Roger myself. I mean, with all the security and everything, it's a big deal. If it got into the wrong hands, well...you said it yourself. It's like a fever."

"A fever you can't sweat out," Mark remembers his words clearly. He notices, this time--Billy's strange look of disappointment. The sudden retraction of the letter, like this was a bad idea. Mark hmmm's for a second before glancing around.

Billy's accent and how jumpy he was was probably because he was out of town. Maybe devoted all of his time to his work, like mark does when he's not chasing imaginary musicians. It stands to reason the way he's dressed that he probably lives by here but definitely not alphabet city. Which means...

Oh.

Billy thinks Mark is trying to dupe him. Well. Mark decides to put and end to that, and suddenly looks down his bicycle, up and Billy, and raises a mischievous eyebrow.

"Looks like I'll deliver you to Roger, then." He's settling on his bicycle, shifting slightly forward so billy could stand and ride behind him. All he has to so is grab the others shoulders. "Mark Cohens delivery service to Alphabet City, round trip with no scenic stops due to a crushing time restraint as set by America the Corporate Thug. "

Seeing that, just that small shift, it reminded him of high school. Less than five years ago, and it seemed like a distant memory. Reckless stunts between friends, scraped knees and carefree attitudes. All at once, his hesitations dissolved into giddy elation.

He cast a quick glance toward Casey. But his bodyguard seemed to have vanished from the food cart. And that clinched it. This was his chance to slip away. What he didn't know is that Casey was allowing this. He hated Higgins almost as much as Billy did. When he'd been sequestered in his bedroom, there had been hushed arguments about how Billy should at least be allowed a small social life.

Thinking he was giving the bodyguard the slip, Billy just nodded eagerly. He slipped the letter into his pocket and threw his leg over the bike. "Then we'd better make this quick!" He announced, getting himself settled.

He's not sure what's happening, but Billy seems absolutely elated that some random guy from Alphabet City is giving him a jockey ride on his bike.

Ah, well. Just because it's normal for Mark doesn't mean it is for Billy. So Mark hops on his bike and heads to his home. He takes shortcuts, though--winds down alleys, passes the cafe they met with minimal head ducking to avoid the waitress.

"Where are you from?" He asked as he weaves in and out of traffic, behind yellow taxi cabs and the like, moving with the kind of confidence only a New Yorker can have while navigating the shitty streets and shitty drivers. For someone who looks like a dweeb, he's incredibly good at shouting right back at the drivers who shout at him. "Your accent, I mean," he clarifies, and shoots down an alley.

The more and more they go, the dingier it gets. It's not quite poor, not yet, but it's certainly not favourable. Even the outskirts of alphabet city leave something to be desired. It's when Mark cuts through another alleyway and winds up on a street next to a stripper bar called the Cat Scratch that there's a noticeable difference. Incredibly so--there are homeless people on the streets begging for change, a few junkies outside another alley. It's a bad place. In the distance, there's a sound of someone beating an old plastic bucket like a drum and Mark is biking towards that very sound.

"Edinburgh," Billy said as he clung to Mark. "Born and bruised." He sounded a little distracted, still working on being comfortable as they rode. Trying to not throw off Mark's balance. At the same time, he was trying to watch where they were going, taking it all in. He hadn't seen much outside of his neighborhood and the studio. And even that was limited. He watched it all from his bedroom window, but that's about it.

This is what he'd always wanted to see. Where the artists lived. The ones who were just starting out, who were too far ahead of the industry to be profitable. The ones who had real creativity, who were in control of their craft. He seemed awed by it all, not at all deterred by the beggars and junkies.

"This is where you live?" Billy asked, gazing up at the buildings.

"Alphabet City," Mark explains. "But east 11th Street and Avenue B is technically where I live." He has a weird feeling about Billy. Corporate pencil-pusher, sure, but something else. He's got a knack. He's got something, a spark. Sheltered, wanting to yearn for more.

Well, looks like he's gonna get it. He slows down near the empty lot by their house, tents for the homeless crammed in every single area. Mark calmly gets off his bike, waits for Billy to do the same, and snatches the eviction notice pasted on the door without even looking at it. It goes straight into the trash, Mark lifts up his bike by the frame, and unlocks the door with one smooth motion. The door screeches but it doesn't seem to bother him. What bothers him is the man on the steps, leather jacket and plaid pants, picking notes on an acoustic guitar.

"You should be inside."

"Temperature's the same here. Who's the guy?"

"Just get up the stairs, Roger."

"New boyfriend?"

"No, and before you harp on my non-existent love life can you move so I can stop carrying this bike?"

Roger, laughing despite how pale he was, carefully hoists himself up so Mark can pass. All it takes is a quick grin, a small 'hey,' to Billy before he's trying to move up the stairs on his own. Mark knows better than to help him with this stuff--Roger has his pride. He'll die before he's completely babied.

Billy slips off the bike, still stunned by everything around them. But his attention was almost immediately drawn to the man with the guitar. Watching his fingers as they moved across the strings. He didn't even notice Mark pulling the notice off the door. He struggled to hold his tongue, wanting to talk to him about it.

But hearing the name dropped, Billy froze. This was Roger?! He found himself staring, wanting to say something. He'd never spoken to anyone who was a fan of his music. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to act?

Roger is moving up the stairs before Billy can think of anything. He wanted to offer to help. The man wasn't just sick, he was dying. But he was gone before Billy could do anything more than smile lamely back at him. He just stuck close to Mark, following his lead, trying to find his bearings.

They enter the place, Mark sliding open the large doors. It used to be a music venue--way, way, way a long time ago, and there are still posters on the wall that people had forgotten to put down once they hastily constructed the apartments. There's a tent city outside, the view horribly dingy save for the neon sign of the Cat Scratch, but it's home.

There's almost nothing valuable, though. Art lining the walls--some Mark's photography, some Maureen's canvas work, some Angel's designs--even Joanne has a small doodle up since she's part of the family. There's a large hole in the ceiling with a piece of tarp over it, an illegal wood-burning stove and a large oil drum procured via probably morally grey means for the winter.

It's summer, though, so all of the windows are open. Mark parks his bike in the corner and makes a beeline for the mismatched sets of couches and chairs, grabbing bottles and hastily cleaning up. It's not like they'd expected guests--most of them just practically live here, anyway. The fact that there's a couch with pillows and blankets made up constantly says enough.

The most expensive thing there, though--save for a slightly pricey fender guitar propped up against the coffee table---is a film projector and a small round of audio and visual equipment. It's busted, old, and second-hand but it's still something worth selling so Mark can help Roger out. Roger, who was still trying to go up the stairs by himself.

"Help yourself to, uh..." Nothing. Water? "Make yourself at home," Mark says instead. Flops onto a couch, motions for Billy to join in right next to him. "I can't believe you're doing this, you're incredible. Hey, do you mind if I film this? I want to get the look on Roger's face--" And he's bounding up again. "--It's part of a piece I'm working on documenting the human condition."

Billy wandered into the loft. For the look on his face, one would think he was stepping into an impressive mansion. He'd never seen anything like it. The true New York artist experience. The sort of thing he expected to have to do at this stage in his life. He never thought he'd get signed as early as he did. Whisked off to California for several years, then hidden away in Manhattan, on the opposite coast from most of those he shared a label with.

The posters on the walls. The massive but grimy windows. Even the oil drum received fond looks from him. But then they came to the couch, and Mark dropped onto it like they had all the time in the world. Then there was that request. A request that almost has him bolting for the door. "I'd rather you wouldn't," he says, sounding a bit uncertain. "Company policy." He sounds a bit bolder. And he feels some of the uncertainty slip away. It wasn't any different than talking to people in the company, he reminded himself. "It's a clause in the contract of anyone who isn't a manager or a performer...not allowed to be on camera anywhere. Liability reasons, I guess?" The lie came rather easily. "Really, this has to stay as hush-hush as possible. I could get fired for all of this."

"Yeah... Yeah, I get it." Deflated. Deflated and, for a brief time, defeated, until he springs up. He moves almost in conjunction with Roger making it up the stairs, dragging his acoustic and looking like he'd seen better days.

"Woah," Roger says at Mark's sudden movement, and Mark actually does help him to the armchair opposite the couch where he all but collapses, finally offering a hand to the other. "Hey, I'm Roger, I--"

"Actually, you know what? I don't get it," Mark states, glass in his hand, getting water for his friend. He spins around and starts walking towards the two, looking at Billy in particular.

"This is exactly why America the Brave is such bullshit! You guys will let sleaze after sleaze show up on CNN about which celebrities going to jail or who did their boobs, take away from all of what's really happening. Yeah, I get that. But how are you a liability? I mean, do they realize that there's cameras everywhere? That sooner or later, you're going to be photographed. So--- so why not get basic, primal moments caught? Nothing for show, not polished shit that your company makes--exceptions, of course, exceptions, but--but why not? There's a liability in the fact that you'll realize you're a zombie, maybe."

"Jesus, Mark, can you just introduce us before you start ranting, please?"

The moment Mark showed up looking like absolute death, Billy rushed to his side without a second thought. The hesitations he'd had before about social interaction seemed to slip away as he helped get the sickly man to the chair. He itched to help him with the guitar, to get a better look at it. To play it. He hadn't touched an acoustic in months. And that used to be the core of what he did. Just him and a guitar. Now he was just a voice.

He dropped down on the table, in front of Roger, no longer quite knowing what to do or how to proceed. How did he even breech this topic? He felt like he was the one meeting the celebrity, having only heard about Roger liking his music. But Mark returned, with a tirade, before he could do anything. The letter was burning a hole on his pocket.

"It's because we technically represent the company, but none of us have the PR grooming that a lot of people do. Paparazzi trying to take stealth photos and the like might catch us, but we're not allowed to give consent to anything." He said it as smoothly as if it were a truth he said every day.

Then he looked to Roger, some of his confidence faltering again. "I...guess he didn't tell you I was coming? I'm Billy McGee," the false name Higgins gave people when it had to be given. "I...work for Valkyrie Studios?" He gave a cautious smile, watching Roger's face. It also felt incredibly strange and almost thrilling to admit that to someone who didn't already work for the company.

"Sleazy," Mark remarks, and slides into the seat next to him again.

Roger surprisingly allows the help, and it's something Mark notices even when he's in a rant. Mark loves Roger and Roger loves Mark, and that means every single intimate feeling is something the other knows, even if it's by no means sexual. Brothers, Mark likes to think. And that's why Mark doesn't comment as Roger keeps the guitar on his lap and eyes the other warily.

"Okay..."

Alright, maybe he won't keep quiet. Mark adjusts his glasses, still miffed about not being able to film. "I didn't realize you were coming. Billy, uh--"

"Wait, Valkyrie? You guys own CHAOS."

"There's an oxymoron, you can't physically own Chaos--"

"--Mark, shut up." And, to Billy: "There's no way you found my demo tape, that was years ago."

Billy can see it. He's not sure what he's seeing, but he sees how much the two care for each other. Something beyond roommates, beyond friendship. But not like they were involved. He doesn't quite understand it all, or how it is he picked up on it. Part of a natural skill he'd always had, but fell by the wayside due to lack of use in recent years.

But then Roger dropped that word. Own. He did feel owned sometimes. Like he was nothing more than property to them. Every aspect of his life manufactured and controlled.

Billy shook his head with a faint laugh of relief. "No, this isn't about a demo tape." Maybe the next time he was in the studio, or spoke to Dorset, he could see if he could find it. "This...is about something else. I ran into Mark a few weeks ago about how you felt about CHAOS. I'm going to give you something. And you've got to swear to me you never show it to anyone, or tell anyone where you got it. Cause if it gets out...not only am I out of a job, but they'd make your life hell. Do I have your word?" That last part was true. The last thing he wanted to see was his company destroying two nice people like this.

"Mark--"

"Just take it."

Roger, though, can't quite process it. He's not sure if they're shitting him, but he glances from Billy to Mark to Billy and back to Mark, who can't help the small grin on his face as he raises an eyebrow.

"This is for real," Roger sets his guitar down, one last nervous look at Mark. "What the hell did you--"

"Roger."

Roger's hands were shaking, but that had nothing to do with his disease or how much medication he was taking. Mark was curious, too, and he leans in just a bit, still holding his camera.

"You know CHAOS? What are they like?" And he opens his hands to accept the gift.

"Not personally," Billy admitted with a sheepish smile, as he tugged off his sunglasses finally. "But I know someone who does and he gave me this." On the word, he pulled out the envelope and slapped it into the man's open hand. "I'm told that when he heard about you, and about what Mark was doing for you, he was incredibly moved."

The envelope was sealed. In it was a handwritten letter in a very neat, careful hand, the sheet torn off a yellow legal pad. It read:

Roger,

I wish I knew more about you so I had more to say than this brief letter will contain. But I honestly can't thank you enough. For as little as my fans see of me, I see just as little of them. It seems the world thinks I am behind a one-way mirror, but it is more a solid brick wall with heavy soundproofing. So just hearing about you has given me more inspiration than I've had in years.

Please know that even though we cannot meet, you have made a very important difference in one person's life. It pains me to know that I cannot meet you myself. Or if I could, I could not tell you who I was.

From what I've been told, I assume you're a musician yourself. I hope to some day hear your music, and be inspired all over again. As it is, just knowing I've touched one life so much is enough to last me for years.

Stay strong,
CHAOS

The name was a wild signature, the slash that crossed both the H and A at the same time seemed to strike out the entire word.

Billy watched Roger with some apprehension, gripping the edge of the table. He'd never written anything like this, and certainly never had occasion to see a person's reaction to such a thing. He felt like he was back in high school, passing notes. "I heard you liked me, is that true? Check yes or no."

Mark is staring, not at the paper, not in curiousity, but at Roger, and he moves his hand to grab Billy's shoulder, squeezing it gently, as he picks up the camera and rises. It was his way of saying he won't film the letter, or even Billy. Just Roger's face.

It's no wonder, too, because Roger--strong, steady Roger, Roger who has been through so much. Through his last girlfriend, through Mimi's unfortunate end, to this. This moment.

There's only this, Mark thinks. Right now, this is everything. This is the moment, this is connection in an isolated age. Suddenly, this isn't about art. This isn't about a documentary. This is Mark desperately trying to film his best friend just before he dies. He just wants a fond memory. He wants this moment.

"Wow," Roger finally says, and his voice cracks just a touch. "I... I don't know what to say," Roger tries again, and Mark slides over so he's on the couch's arm, camera down, touching Roger's shoulder this time. Roger doesn't take his hand but he does lean into it, still staring.

"I'd say you paid for this to happen, but you're just as broke as me," He finishes finally, and Mark laughs, finally peering over the paper. Roger, looking up--desperate, with tears in his eyes--gets up and, without any warning, proceeds to wrap Billy up in a bear hug, whooping with delight.

"I'm going to finish it," Roger's saying. "I'm going to finish one great song. Mark?"

"Rolling." He lifts up the camera as Roger scrambles out of the way so Billy can't be seen.

"Hey, AIDS! Zoom in on this--" both middle fingers in the air, and he turns around only to drop his pants and moon Mark's camera.

"Eloquent," Mark observes, and Roger, laughing for the first time in ages, moves back to the chair.

"Holy shit," He pushes his hair away from his face. "I just got a letter from CHAOS."

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