[The Frontier] Farewell

The Citadel often saw the coming and going of ships: trade vessels, private ships, pleasure craft, lean warships, all passed through CSpace's capital on their way to the ends of the galaxy. But the cluster of ships cradled in the Presidium docks were still not seen everyday.

Ten vessels with broad, angular lines, lightly armed and heavily-laden, at least three of which appeared to have been seized during the war and the weapons thrown on more or less. A single heavy cruiser in Alliance blue, two other lighter cruisers, one in Hierarchy colours. Five frigates of varying allegiances and size, all with sharp-teeth.

This was the vanguard into the unknown, the flotilla that would enter the Traverse.

Near the docks was somewhat of a holding area for those waiting to board the heavy cruiser and flagship of the flotilla, the SSV Mashhad. A simple, spartan room, with a few chairs, a vending machine, a few wall advertisements and a single window that looked out over the docks, where the Mashhad waited. All several hundred metres of her, an odd mix of sharp lines and sleek curves. From this distance the broadsides were visible, though they were currently neatly tucked away.

It was here that you found yourself, taking part in that insufferable waiting that came with the military.

Kai'Fenrer nar Tonbay felt even more out of place than usual. There was the usual stuff of course - heads had turned as the Relicae's convert had entered. There would have been more with the Transgression at his side, but that was already being packed away safely aboard the Mashhad. Kai fervently hoped nobody would drop it or steal it or damage it. That would just be the perfect starter to a voyage he was already immensely worried about.

A joint force of Alliance and Hierarchy forces banding together to explore the unknown reaches of the Terminus. Officially, Kai was a civilian contractor. [Redacted] had furnished him with very convincing papers to that effect (not that he wasn't qualified anyway). Unofficially, he was a mole. A harmless one of course - he didn't have orders to scuttle the flagship and flee into the night with everything in the hold - but it still made him nervous to be spying on the military. So he shifted nervously from foot to foot and kept drinking from the poor, abused can in his iron grip.

Speaking of which. On the one hand, the instinct to hack the vending machine to get his drink had been so overpowering that he'd been halfway to doing so before he remembered that he had more than enough credits to just buy something. On the other, despite being sharp and unhealthy and possibly made of 99% harmful chemicals, the fizzy soft drink had so much flavour that Kai couldn't bring himself to care. Focusing on every new thing he could taste had become a fairly reliable way to keep his nerves from overwhelming him in recent days.

On the physical side, and relating back to the 'iron grip', he'd had a bit of a tune-up before being sent out. Shoes that fit him were still a serious problem, considering no other Council race had remotely quarian-shaped feet, but [Redacted] had made do pretty well with the rest of his 'contractor' outfit. Hands and feet excluded, the most overtly artificial part of him was now the new additions to his head. A pair of ceramic plates, mounted on rails, that could slide over his face and flash-forge themselves together at a simple command. A handy-dandy new HUD, microcameras embedded in the white ceramic to let him see 'through' it, a more convenient way to check on his drone's wellbeing, and armour plating for his face in one trendy package.

... Keelah he hoped the other people coming on the voyage would be nice.

This was the observation deck, one airlock away from the actual boarding zone for the expedition fleet flagship SSV Mashhad. This was the area reserved for the farewells. Some couples were saying their goodbyes, mostly Alliance personnel. Some mates were standing by a big window, observing the ships. Two asari and a human woman approached.

Taleeze put down the large kitbag she had been carrying for her mate.
“So here we are. I miss you already. Promise to call as soon as ou ycan.” She looked up at the much taller huntress in black-red fatigues.

“I am sure they will have proper extranet and communications on the vessel. We’ll write at least. You know how it is with vidcalls but I’ll try. It’s a human vessel after all, they tend to care more about these things than turians do.” The purple skinned asari managed a smile.

Freh’ya hugged Taleeze and Skylar, bowing down to be able to stick her head together with the other asari and the human woman.

“Miss you too. Take care of C-Space for me will you?”

“Sure thing! I hope they have a better bunk for you than on this trip to earth with CMEP. Why don’t they ever assign you to asari ships?”

“Forgetting Trategos already? But someone higher up just likes to think I am a good representative.”

The two republican asari frigates operating with the flotilla were loaded with additional sensory equipment and their own full crews. So as part of the Council Military Exchange Program, Freh’ya had been assigned to the multispecies task force aboard the Alliance flagship. She hated being a poster girl…. From the list of names in her briefing documents, there might even be some familiar faces on board, so maybe it wouldn’t be completely bad.

She ran a hand through Skylar’s blond hair.

She picked up the bag, slinging it over her shoulder
“Farewell, loves.” Quick kisses…. Okay, not so quick kisses.

Palmer stood by the window, idly examining the ships at the dock as she tied her hair up into a bun. The Alliance cruiser looked somewhat interesting as she had not been on one for actual patrol before though she was cleared to fly one in a pinch if necessary. She had utilized that skill once with a salarian cruiser of all things, never a human one. Lyra smiled, fervently hoping that this wasn't the time that she got to try out an Alliance cruiser.

Her eyes slightly glazed over as she examined the rest of the ships before realizing that the one at the end was a krogan ship. One of the Kalanda class. Her head tilted to the side as she examined this one for it was entirely new to her. Maybe she could convince the captain to let her abroad at some point to check it out in person. That would preclude its survival though or docking somewhere during the mission as she wasn't going to go check it out now of all times.

She pondered what this was going to be like for her. She had gone sometime without violence and here she was, once again, contracting for the Alliance and the Hierarchy. If it wasn't for the destination being the Nubian Expanse, a place that was the closest to the place she considered home, she wouldn't have even bothered with it. Alas, she could not be certain as to how the Expanse was until she went there and when the choice was with a flotilla or with a single ship, she, like any sane person, opted for the flotilla.

So here she was, thanks to a few conversations with friends still in the Alliance, waiting to board a cruiser.

With braying voices preceding them almost by several minutes, a quintet of turians sauntered through into the waiting area. At their head stood Sergeant Thaedi Nemanovan, lean and proud, his armour spit-polished and gleaming. Gone were the drab browns and camouflage pattern of the arid environment hardsuit Nem felt he had been encased in forever. He was off Caphex, off Menae, off Tuchanka and off Luna - he was a spaceborne turian again, and he wore the black and red of a fleet turian once more. The five turians moved noisily through the gathering crowd, all with rucksacks held taut against their backs, most with Phaeston rifles dangling loosely from straps looped around their shoulders.

Nem took a moment to gaze out at the cruiser that was to be home for the operation, before turning round and giving his squad their marching orders. His four squadmates were bound for a dock further along, smaller, less important. While Nem was to board the flotilla's flagship, make with the meet-and-greets, attend briefings and make himself known with the command hierarchy, his own small command would travel in rougher accommodations, aboard one of the smaller frigates and alongside its air-deployable IFV. With the rest of the cargo.

There was a flurry of shoulder punches, talon locks and back slaps as Nem bade his squad luck. Raucous benedictions, off-colour jokes and a few parting salvos of banter. And then Nem was alone. He hoisted his pack into a more comfortable, eyes staring balefully at the cruiser. He should have been excited at the prospect of deployment. Out of all the 5th Mobilised forces that had been committed to joint exercises at the heart of human territory, his was the sole, tiniest unit that had been selected for this mission, the mission nobody had even heard of until Thaedi and his squad had been told to pack their bags and pack light. The LT had told him he should feel proud to be selected, but the doubts lingered. Sure, the way the Hierarchy worked he knew his selection was a gesture of confidence; they knew his squad was good enough to get the job done. But at the same time, it also showed his squad wouldn't be missed. The 5th would carry on as it was, it's spirit not even given a moment of pause by the temporary departure of Backhand 2-1 Actual.

Panning his gaze around the room, Nem's brow creased as he took in the sheer variety of troops, hardbitten vets and otherwise, assembling for this off-kilter mission. He'd fought with all sorts during the Reaper War, of course, but this was still going to take some getting used to. Especially if they were taking freaks like...

"No fucking way." Nem remarked, almost casually, as he realised he recognised the synthetic looking bastard by the window. "Kai!" He called out. He bounded over to the former quarian like a terrier. He diverted all his excess momentum into a friendly shoulder punch an Exo Caper villain would have happily swung at the animated protoganist in anger. A shoulder punch that probably barely registered on the synth's sensor net, but left Nem's hand numb as a hallex addict. "Kai, you sneaky motherfucker, you didn't tell me you were a stone cold Hierarchy deployable asset! You remember me, right? Nem? Fuck are you doing here, bro?"

Then there was Peregrinus Worag, or as he officially appeared on the contract, Urdnot Worag as the Peregrinus one was wanted for piracy and manslaughter by various law enforcement outfits across the galaxy. However to Worag's benefit these arrest warrants were at least decades old and records were probably a royal mess after all that had happened.

He was sitting there in Mashhad's waiting area with the other contractors, wishing that his gear had gotten to the right ship. He was a heavy hitter and signed up as such, and forgoing his LMG and grenades for some pitiful Avenger was not the way he wished to spend this job. Thought of going to a fight without his trusty aides was akin to diving into the fray naked. Even right now he felt like the armor he wore wasn't on without a heavy arsenal to complement it.

Speaking of the job, there seemed to be quite an international crowd in here with him. The human female wasn't in Alliance kit, the...quarian mech? The hells was the deal with it? And then a turian who seemed very familiar with the weirdo.

"Hey, you. What's with the faceplates? You forget your own home on Rannoch?" he barked across the room at Kai. Seriously, if that guy was a quarian, what was he doing outside the suit with ballistic plating on his head?

Third level: Economic-Political. Only so many berths, only so many openings on the Citadel sanctioned missions. Passage carries with it an exclusive vector of access to the Traverse from the platform of C-Space. Their banner. Their resources. A finger on the beating pulse of the galactic east. Interest accrued on services rendered. Discrete calls for mercenary and private interests spark off a bidding war. Short, sharp, brutal. The victors don their Sunday best and stand, tickets in hand. The losers retire to lick their wounded pride. Titan has the distinction of joining the soon to be passengers.

Second level: Diplomatic-Bureaucratic. The launching point is to be the Citadel and as the jurisdictional lines snap into place problems arise. The corporation's men and women are bought and paid for, tacit approval given by the Alliance despite the rather unconventional nature of their augments. A snarl of technicalities and legislation, authorities remain steadfast. Ship date in jeopardy. Alternative plans to meet the flotilla at the relay are drafted, withheld due to logistical concerns. It takes an eleventh hour call to the Embassy to resolve the matter. The dragon growls and signatures snap to dotted lines, a special dispensation put into effect; all hail the almighty defense contract. Genetic engineering and cybernetics are a particularly useful set of skills and in the post-war ruin the Corporation's wings cast a vast shadow. Not as high as the Ambassador's office oh no. But you wouldn't have to crane your neck all that hard to see it. Anxious C-Sec officers escort the mercenaries from the docks in Tayseri to the launch point.

First level: Here. Now. Kai is, for once, neither the most heavily augmented individual in the room nor the only Relicae's; no few of the aforementioned curious looks come from them, his fraternal brothers and sisters. Sitting, lounging, chatting. Raucous laughter echoes from one of the more lively parts of the lobby, the actual punchline itself missed by those nearby. A squad of full conversions have made themselves at home here, pulling crates of weapons, armor, and materiel into a circle. They pass around snacks, canteens. They're military specced, on and all. Lightweight, almost organic looking armor. CNT sculpted musculature. One cleans a rifle the size of a MMG, an angular, jagged thing. A bladed weapon sits in it's sheathe behind another.

A full platoon all in all, light infantry, drone operators. Gathered round each other, an island of green, black, and silver amidst the myriad of colors and insignias that sprawled across the docks. Here a young man, barely a kid, in fatigues with a stylized icon of some beast or another tattooed on his shoulder showing it off to a rifleman. There a hanar off to the side pulsing intently into an OT.

Another man, ostensibly human and not much older (if at all) than the tattooed one, reclining; balancing a crate on it's edge, another bladed thing sheathed in his hand pressed into service as a prop. Jerking out of his reverie at the krogan's catcalls. A woman who looked too much like him to be anything but his sister standing at the great glass windows; forehead pressed against plate, looking at the docks below and desperately trying to stave off boredom.

All waiting for the doors to open. For this merry little adventure to finally kick off.

Indeed, the punch felt about as threatening as a gentle prod to Kai, but coupled with the shock of seeing a familiar face actually pleased to see him, Kai was very nearly floored anyway. Nem's enthusiasm was so powerful that it was almost like a physical wash, leaving him dizzy, but still he smiled. And for a change, it was halfway genuine.

"I remember, I remember!" he replied. "I'm um... I'm not Hierarchy though. Independent contractor. I'm overseeing all the drones and stuff, making sure they work. Maybe operate them too? Not quite sure yet."

Having learned his lesson from the somewhat draining encounter with Kari'Zar, Kai tried very hard not to react to the krogan's exclamation. Don't get me wrong, he instantly started regretting the face shield and wishing Nitasha had never installed it despite how useful it would prove to be, but at least this time he hid it better. Only Nem could see that he was chewing the inside of his cheek.

"You are a good representative," Skylar smiled, her eyes glistening slightly as she held Freh'ya's hand, and leaned slightly into the fingers running through her hair. She let her gaze stray to the Alliance heavy cruiser, reassuring herself of its might, that it was a vessel that would keep their loved one safe. Of course this was Freh'ya they were talking about; could well be the other way around.

God, we don't exactly build them pretty, do we? she mused, not for the first time. Then again she was no student of starship design; without a doubt, her judgement was moved by more than aesthetics alone in appreciating the smooth ocean-inspired lines of Republican hulls. Even she had to give the Alliance credit, though, that nobody could see one of its warships coming and not know it meant business.

"Farewell and au revoir," she nodded, accepting the commando's kisses eagerly. It took her a moment afterwards to catch her breath. "And if I may be so bold, when it's time to come home, adopt a human trait: be hasty." She winked, then put an arm around Taleeze's shoulders and hugged her tightly. If she were in Freh'ya's place, she was sure this was the parting sight she would want - her two mates, in harmony.

If a few hours wait was long, insufferable and tedious, then Eril and her current cohort had done it to the point where they barely even noticed it anymore. Taking up a few of the chairs, and some of the floorspace as they moved into the room. The uniform colours of the shawls upon their suits: A deep blue base with white details, and the silvery trim along the edges, and the suits themselves looking far sturdier and more solidly-built than one typically seen. The fleet marines were well-equipped, an oddity among fleet-serving quarians.

Piling a few weapon cases in the middle of their group, they kept mostly to themselves. Occasionally looking out at the ship individually, watching the varied assortment of shuttles ferrying supplies onto the cruiser, taking interest in one particularly large one that assumable looked to be of quarian make that ventured to and from the Mashhad's cargo hold from time to time.

The marines of this detachment had been sent as a mostly political measure by the admiralty; as a particular gesture of goodwill and a symbolic message they they were going to start participating in the galactic community at large, sending in roughly a full platoon along with the mission along with an appropriate ship to ferry them around.

But for now, the only part to be done was the long, boring wait...

It was a a few weeks ago that Emma Conway received orders to be posted to the SSV Mashad, this time rather than sweating in a run-down FOB and taking potshots from insurgents, she would be a part of a deep space expedition into the Traverse.

Admittedly, Emma was excited, being part of those who would lead the vanguard into the frontier of space. With Earth slowly but surely recovering, more worlds to settle and colonize were needed, without reliance on the mass relays. Of course, there was also the prospect of spending months at a time in a cramped ship, one with freelancers from various species, boredom could then easily turn into tension depending on the circumstances.

And of course, there was the fact she likely would not be able to contact Lynn, Paul and what was left of her family and friends as she did on Earth.

Lynn had been...pensive to say the least regarding Emma's decision to join the Alliance, having already lost their father and older brother during the war, their own mother who had been deceased long ago, and it had turned into a point of tension between the two sisters. Emma who had always relied on her elder siblings, now wanted to strike out her own, and sometimes felt that Lynn was too doting at times.

Nevertheless, for now there were no issues as she wrapped her sister in an embrace.

"You take care of yourself Em, you hear me?" Lynn said

"It's not like I'm going on anti-piracy patrols Lynn." Emma replied "But I'll write back whenever I can, it'll just have to be by omni-tool instead of screen for a while."

In a way, Lynn was somewhat proud, she had remembered when she first signed for the Royal Military Police all those years ago, and Emma hugging her arm before embarking to the Afghan DMZ. She really had grown up a lot. Still, she worried, Emma was one of the few family she had left in this galaxy after all.

"Think you better get to the disembarking point, Em. I'll let Callius know you said hello"

"Love you too." Emma said, hugging Lynn one last time before heading to disembarkation.

If most of those in the holding area were unusual in some aspects or in a lot of them, in the case of some of the mercenaries and the quarian, the next arrivals were practically Standard Issue Marines. They trickled into the room in ones and twos and clumps, some kissing goodbye family members, others exchanging handshakes and hearty backslaps, a few holding back tears at the coming separation.

Amidst the growing crowd, PFC Lakshika Rajapaske slipped in almost unnoticed. The girl-because she was a girl-was not really what you thought of when you thought 'Recon Marine fireteam leader', being legitimately tiny, gene mods or not. She was in her utility uniform, seabag slung over her shoulder and her case full of weapons and armour and whatnot in her hands. There would be checks on the said weapons and equipment before long by the Recon squad's leader but for now...

Well for now, Rajapaske tried to stay out of the way. She sort of hated embarkations, because there were all these families and hugging and tears and well...It made her feel a bit funny, like there was an empty space in her chest. She would happily just stay on the Mashhad forever.

Her first thought as she gently set down her case of equipment, was that there were a lot of aliens, sorry non-Alliance, around her and would that mean she was going to get stuck guarding doors to make sure none of the guests went where they weren't supposed to? Her second thought was that she was right next to a mercenary perching on a crate.

With a sword-thingy.

She looked at him. Said very matter-of-factly, "Hi."

And her squad leader said she needed to work on being less socially awkward.

Eventually Freh’ya let go of her wifes.
“I am trying to get better at that.” she chuckled. Having something worthwhile to return to made leaving harder and returning the more urgent. The subtle change over the last year had never felt so hard as it did this time.

The commando waved as she walked past the scanner and into the airlock. Her identity was approved by a computer voice and she looked back at that last picture of Skylar and Taleeze standing there, smiling, and waving as the door on behind her closed. She winked, out of the spur of a moment.

The other hatch opened and she entered the boarding lounge with a serious face. A look about the room presented her a wide range of all the species possible. She noticed a turian chatting with a quite unusual quarian. She had heard of highly cyberized quarians but never met one in person, this would be interesting, also trying not to treat him like a total curiosity.

There was another quarian even, this one more usual in her marine gear though.

There were two faces that were kind of familiar, one just had entered before, Conway she thought was the name and there was another woman, that small one, talking to that obvious merc.

And there was a woman near the window, doing something to her hair. Freh’ya got a semitransparent reflection of her face in the window and something was about her and the stripes she wore were a well known symbol.

The huntress approached one of the benches close to the window and the human, put down her bag and took a seat, stretching her legs.

Albert Thompson was greatly disturbed by the pain in his mother's face. Unsure of why exactly she was crying, why exactly she kept squeezing him to her chest tighter than she usually did, but he knew that her expression was a bad thing. He didn't like bad things. He began to cry as well, which certainly didn't help his mother's disposition.

"I love you, baby. You're the sun and stars in my sky. I love you so much." Sarah kissed her baby and extended her arms, handing her son with great reluctance over to her sister-in-law Margaret, a plump woman with striking red hair and a mother's smile. The parking area of the docks was full, each person departing on the new trip to the Traverse. Everyone had a story, and Sarah's was one of an unfamiliar pain.

"He loves his blanket, and his dolls. I'm going to be calling every day I can and the schedule may be off because I'm going to be so far away. I've left enough food for him in the fridge at my place and I know you have the keys." The woman removed the service cap of her uniform and squeezed the bucket of the ball-cap as she spoke, her tone quick and broken up.

Margaret gave her sister-in-law a comforting hug with her free arm, speaking with a reassuring authority. "It's just a few months, Sarah. I'll take care of everything. I've got experience in the 'taking-care-of-children' field, you know." She shot the woman a knowing smile. "You don't need to have a worry in the world. Go on, you're just going to make this harder for the both of you." She shifted Albert onto her other arm and tried to comfort him.

Sarah dried her tears on her sleeves and gave a nod. "I love you, Margie. You're the best." She took a deep breath and shook her hands, trying to psych herself up. She gave Margaret a peck on the cheek, followed by another kiss for her son, before she turned on her heel and made a bee-line towards the dock, despite the pain in her heart.

Three marines filed into the waiting room, duffle bags over their shoulders, followed closely by a leashed varren seemingly wearing an old tanker's helmet.

"You guys didn't have to didn't have to do this." Service Chief Michael Cline said.

"Screw that, you've got too much essential gear, Chief. What happened last time you forgot all your gear?" one marine asked.

"I end up in the ass end of the Middle East, having to deal with Insurgents..."

"Yeah, and that ain't gonna happen again, hermano. Besides, We'll be alright. Knox'll keep the rest of the squad in line" the other marine said, as both marines accompaning Service Chief Cline handed him the duffle bags, trading them for the leash of the varren.

Cline kneeled down and gave the varren a few pets. "Be good for the rest of the squad, Urz. I hear you chewed up the Lieutenant's boots again, no treats for a month, you hear?"

"Woaf!" The varren replied, playfully saluting Michael with his front paws.

"Good boy!"

The kneeling marine rose up, and nodded to the two who came with him. "Alright you two hooligans, go and enjoy your leave." he says with a grin, before heading over to one of the seats close to the window. He recognizes Freh’ya from the grand adventure that was the Middle East.

"This seat taken, Freh’ya?" he asks, setting down all three duffle bags.

"Hell..." it took the man a moment to jerk his head away from the tit of a krogan who was shouting at an augmented quarian in front of something like...three dozen augs and a detachment of Migrant Marines "-o?"

The crate slammed back to the deck plating as he finally gave the Recon Marine his undivided attention. And, as his long bangs were idly brushed back lo and behold it was rather conclusively demonstrated that, out of a band of transsapient mercenaries, the private had picked one of the better looking ones to talk to.

"Ishida Sanageyama you uh...need something?"

Hair worn well past normal regulation length, shaggy and tousled. Bright, almost luminescent green eyes. Skin tanned from long hours outside, muscles corded and toned from longer hours at work. His clothes more of a wink and a nod to the more formal wear of his fellows. Fatigues, a long jacket worn unfastened over an appealingly tight shirt. He lounged like he was on a beach somewhere. Feet kicked up, body unwound across his makeshift chair. Blade firmly in hand. Not much older than the PFC herself. The very picture, the very image of casual poise.

Right up until the skin beneath that oh so close fitting shirt rippled and flexed. A raised ridge, serpentine, shrouded by verdant cloth and warm flesh, coiling. Swimming. Vanishing.

He didn't so much as blink.

Freh’ya couldn’t help but notice the newcomers enter. They brought a varren with a hat? Great. Now, she was not hostile towards the animals in general but this group was such an odd mix of Terminus cliché and… oh, there came Cline!

She smiled a greeting at the biotic engineer she had already met before.

“Sure, sit down. Good to see some familiar faces around here. What’s the deal with your entourage there?”

"Ah, those were two of my squadmates in the 9th. Took some of their leave to help me get carry all my gear here." Michael explained. "The varren, however? That's Urz, I got him when he was a small pup before the War from a friend of mine in Clan Urdnot. Little dude's very well behaved." he said cheerfully, bringing up a picture on his omni-tool. "Here's a picture of him riding in a M4 Sherman..." he says, showing the picture of Urz, as happy as can be, head poking out of the Commander's hatch of the old tank.

"Hey, no shit." Nem looked around, a a bemused expression on his face. "Figured this being a Hierarchy-Alliance op, you'd be more like to come down the side of Hierarchy, you get me? But shit, I think there's more indies, small timers and cyber freaks here than there are straight up H 'n A grunts. Uh, no offence." He added hurriedly, giving a small deferential nod Kai's way.

The invasive rumble emanating from a slowly advancing krogan rather soured Nem's disposition. "Fuck, bro," he mumbled to Kai, almost under his breath, "you are just a magnet for dipshits, you know?" His mandibles widened, he sneered at the krogan. "Hey back the fuck up, shitstack. I just polished the plating and I really don't wanna scuff it up breaking your fat head open before we even make it aboard the ship, you feel? Play nice with my boy here." A cold, steely eyed glance punctuated the last sentence. A suggestion only, but a forceful one.

Nem turned back to Kai, shook his head and threw a single, pointing digit over his shoulder in the direction of the krogan. "Fuckin' humpstumps, right?" He laughed. "Dude, does that furface there have a fuckin' varren?"

Cline looked over to the turian who called him 'furface'. "Yeah, I have a varren, and he DOESN'T try to maul the bajeezus out of everything! And if I remember correctly, I shaved this morning!" he said in good jest.