Yabba Dabba Nooooo [open]

[acroodawakening]

Who| Guy Crood
What| Guy's Introduction to the Arena. Forecast: Terror with periodic showers of extreme anxiety
Where| I'm going to say he's somewhere around the northwest of the island
When| Second week, I think?
Warnings/Notes| Guy's new and twitchy, so watch out.

"I don't - I don't understand! What do you mean a battle to the death? Are you crazy?!"

The last thing Guy remembered before waking up on a hard bed...thing in a strange shelter (a cave maybe?) had been settling down for the night with the rest of the family. (In a sleep pile, of course.) The place where the Croods had been camped out was hilly and not far from the sea, so the cool night breezes coming in from the ocean had made sleeping all cuddled together rather comfortable and no one in the family could ever pass up a good sleep pile when conditions allowed it. They hadn't even bothered with a fire. There were few wild animals daring enough to tangle with a jungle cat the size of Chunky, or their owl-bear Lu, and their scent alone usually kept most predators away.

That was where he'd been last, curled up next to Eep, his daughter sleeping on his chest, Belt curled around his head, in a jumble of limbs with the rest of the family. All of them had been wrapped up protectively in his father's - in Grug's - arms. The last thing he'd seen was the endless swath of stars above them, their light sharp and beautiful, and the last thing he'd heard was the soft rustling of grasses as the wind swept over the hill.

The next thing he knew, he'd woken up here - wherever here was - alone. No daughter in his arms, no mate curled up next to him, no family to be found when surely they would've woken up if someone had snatched him up in the night.

Then again, Guy still wasn't sure how he'd wound up snatched without waking up himself. All he knew was that he was here, being dragged by people wearing some strange hard...something (were they people at all?) down a tunnel, one that looked far too neatly carved to be natural. The faceless beings dragging him around looked like bug-people, like they were humans with carapaces. (Humbugs? Insectumans?)

"Hey! Hey hey hey hey hey!" he cried out in a thin voice as some of them started pulling off his clothes. Somehow every "hey" was an entirely different pitch. "Hands off! Hands off! Get your creepy bug hands off!"

He thrashed against the hold they had on him. "And give me back that knife! That was my father's!"

Kicking didn't seem to do much good. Whatever they were, they were strong, and before long they'd forced him into unfamiliar clothing and shoes, made of no animal skins Guy had ever seen before.

"Who are you people?!"

Guy felt something pinch his arm and saw one of them withdrawing some kind of long...needle. He let out a terrified yelp as he was shoved onto a round stone. Then he started to rise through a long tube, another tunnel, into a place with open sky.

"What have you done with my family? Where's my daughter?" He pounded his fists against the side of the tube, and screamed again, "Where's my daughter?!"

But the bug-men were gone from view and then he was above ground in the middle of a vast, untamed wilderness, muggy and wet, unlike any he'd ever seen -

"Why did you take me inside a cave somewhere just to shove me back outside again?" Guy yelled at the stone platform he'd risen up on, perplexed, holding out his arms as if to say 'What gives?' What, they'd kidnapped him to move him maybe a mile?

Wait, no, this wasn't like any of the forests of home. It wasn't bright enough. There were no vividly colored plants in rainbow colors, completely overpowering the green, no girelephants grazing nearby, no albatroceroses flying lazily through the air. It was very green but compared to just about every forest he'd ever seen in his life, this place was dim. And those bug-people... He'd never seen anything like them in the old world nor had he'd seen anything like them in Tomorrow.

Where were the hills? Where was the sea? And most importantly of all: Where was his family? His breathing started to come more quickly and catch in his throat as he looked around at an unfamiliar landscape. The strangers' words started to sink in:

You will be competing with the other Tributes in a battle to the death. There will only be one survivor.

There were other people here then. Other people that had probably been grabbed from who knew where, shoved into this place, and told the exact same thing. Before he even realized he was doing it, Guy started to run, but before he got very far he stopped himself, slowing back down to a trot.

It was difficult to. Sometimes, when he was in a panic, Belt was the one that had to smack him out of it, but Belt wasn't here right now. He had to do it for himself.

Just like he used to. Before Belt. When the nights were always dark and his stomach was empty more often than it was full.

"No. No no no. You know how it works," he muttered to himself, waving an arm. "Stop. Stop."

He checked his waist to see if they'd left anything at all that he could use, but his knife, his flint and spark stone, his pouch, all of it was gone. They'd even taken his shell necklace and leather hair tie. He had nothing but the bone bracelet on his wrist.

The moment he realized they hadn't taken that, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Okay so maybe it wasn't a knife but his bracelet matched the bracelet on Eep's wrist, that had the same carvings of a warthog and a tiger joyfully chasing each other's tails. There was a ring attached to it, with smaller rings attached to that, bound together with a strip of leather. He pulled that strip extra taught with his teeth. Now was not the time for it to rattle.

After briefly glancing at the carvings on the bracelet again, centering himself, he looked up at the strange new world around him and took a few deep breaths.

"Okay," he said quietly to himself in huffed breath. "Okay, Guy, you've been here before. Maybe not with quite so many people trying to kill you buuut with everything else trying to. You know what to do."

Then he started to move off through the underbrush, quickly but also carefully and - above all else - quietly, his eyes and ears open for threats - and open for anything useful he could find. Especially flint. In situations like this, flint was your friend.

Comments

[Placeholder for Hawkeye] Any other threads take place after this one

[acroodawakening]

[swill]

Being taken from the compound wasn't great. Being manhandled wasn't great. Being told your execution was dawning wasn't great.

Being put in a capsule just wide enough to take a half step in any direction, the (reinforced, he supposes) glass just inches from him, the movement of a reduced world starting up with little warning, the tight throat and tense muscles and wide eyes and weak knees, the shortness of breath, the sound of a vacuum, the imaginary diminishing supply of air--

that wasn't great.

So when Hawkeye sees light and feels a sudden dampness that could only come from outside, and he realizes suddenly that he's standing on a pedestal and that there's a breeze blowing, moving the tall and wild looking grass, and that he can feel it, he has to huff out what he'd thought moments before would be his last breath. His treasured life. Naturally, it's the crudest groan he could muster and he'd bet anything a spent elephant made the same noise. His shoulders are held high, he knows. They hurt, damn it, of course he knows. His knees feel locked, like he couldn't move his legs if he tried. He doesn't try. He feels heavy, he feels light-headed. A fight to the death? A war? A game? It's calm. He's the only man standing. Did he already win?

In front of him is a construct. A behemoth. Around him is jungle and the threat of death. He's used to bare mountains instead. The pedestal he's wasted precious seconds on seems like a sanctuary but Hawkeye's not a moron, at least not now. This isn't a cathedral, isn't Father Mulcahy's mess tent. He raises his arms to the sky and says "Gee, I love what you've done with the place," to no one in particular or to the people playing God and he wonders if he's just admitted he'd rather die than be subjected to his phobia but he doesn't think he has. He also thinks, for the first time, that he's a sitting duck. It's a jolt. It's reality. The air smelled like it'd only just finished raining seconds before but Hawkeye swears he smells metal and gunpowder and rotgut and infection all of a sudden. He swears that for a moment the green all around him turned white- that everything flashed with his revelation- that the sight of an exploding mortar comes second to the cold grip of this new fear. Escape, escape, there had to be a way out and it sure as Hell wasn't by standing around. He turns to his right and he's running. And the tall grass hits his arms and face and he feels dumbly disappointed that he's sure he's sporting minor scratches already and he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other for far too long than should be expected of a grown man. Four hundred yards and he's straining to keep going. Six hundred yards and he's sweating and his stomach hurts and so does his chest. --and thinking about it made it worse, made the stiffness of his muscles return. Christ.

The jungle talks to him, tells him there are birds and mice and bigger, badder things, maybe. And screw trotting but he can't afford a full stop with his paranoia tugging his nerves the way it is. So Hawkeye walks- creeps, rather, one hand on his stomach and looking flushed. He crouches along the roots of trees and moss and pretends it's the Chinese or North Koreans who are on his tail, because it's as close an image to a death match as he can conjure without losing himself or his head. People killing people. Christ.

"You could have had the goat!" His mouth's moving and he's talking in an impression of a stage-whisper before he decides to stop. Death was the penalty for being found, remember? Death and death and death and stuff and death. The bastards up above hadn't given him his medical bag. He'd have no chance if a leopard or something found him. He hopes there's an aid station, at least, situated somewhere within the jungle but knows there's not. You could have had the goat, he mouths again but this time he's silent. But the movements are bigger, his free hand swatting heavily at a vine. He stumbles. He continues northwest. He hears his dog tags clink. Christ.

[acroodawakening]

Clicking noises were coming from somewhere in the brush. A quiet chik chik chik chik chik of indeterminate origin.

Was it a bug? Some kind of animal? Was it a person?

Dare he move in closer to take a look or was he going to run away?

Whatever Hawkeye decided, there was no guarantee it was the safest thing to do. Maybe whatever was making the noise wanted him to move closer. Maybe it wanted to herd him away.

[swill]

There was a moment when Hawkeye thinks he'd overreacted to the noise of this tags. When he'd gotten his head out of the clouds long enough to realize they were still on him, despite the new fatigues, he'd tried to bunch them under his shirt. Call him over-sensitive but he could swear the rattling of the chain was louder than the birds chirping overhead in the canopy or the rustle of a passing breeze turning the foliage. His steps slowed and his gaze turned down to the path he hoped to take. There was only a slight problem to add to the heap of problems this particular day had presented him with: there was no path to follow. Trees and jungle were wherever he turned-- there were mountains, he would sometimes catch a peek of their peaks, but how helpful can they be, so far away, when he doesn't know where he should be headed at all? True, suppose he should be avoiding places he'd want to go -because if he wanted to go somewhere, chances are other people would also want to go there and he's supposed to be avoiding people- but death by exposure was, ah

unappealing.

Hawkeye doesn't know someone heard him. He only knows he has to stop and look and think. A death match. An honor. A pageant. He knew the words. They just didn't make sense. He fixes his hair -it tickled his forehead, messy as it already was- and takes a deep breath. His mouth's running a mile a minute, but his talking's silent. Hand gestures are thrown- just this and that and why. And he walks back and he doesn't turn. He'd just hoped to lean up against a tree.

[acroodawakening]

The unfortunate thing about walking back the way you came on the same trail was that even though you'd already come that way, there was always a chance you'd step in a different spot than you'd stepped before.

Hawkeye's luck had allowed him to miss the trap the first time.

He wasn't so lucky the second time.

There was a loud snap and Hawkeye would suddenly find vines tighten around his ankle, vines that would yank him upside down in the air. My, wasn't the world suddenly a very different one than it had been a moment before. Aside from being upside down, it was just a little bit more horrifying.

[swill]

"--this crummy--!"

No, he doesn't know where the fuck his curse is going but thankfully he's got only the breath to shout out those two words in a long string of many more unpleasant things as the world inverts around him. Up is down, down is up. Green is gray, and sky is mud. Heels over head in stupid.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. "No, no, no, no, no, nuh no."

This Christless jungle!

Hawkeye's not a clumsy person, not in any significant way. He'd have told himself that any other time before now. See, there's this thing about surgeons that they have to be sure in where they step and how they move. His face has gone red from the scare and the suspension and the more he tries to swing himself to try and catch the vine with his hands, the more he just doesn't. The dog tags come down the collar on his shirt, hit him square in the chin. He's got mud on him too, probably, from his boots and he can't thrash because he'd hate to think what that would do to his damn foot.

Teeth grit--

Christ, why?

Why him? He's going to die like a buck. Like a stupid, young buck, not the big respectable ones with the enormous antlers which made for the better trophies. He's not even scared anymore. There's an irrational amount of calmness in him, he thinks, or maybe he's just about to empty his stomach. Or maybe the blood's just rushing to his head faster than it should. It's not even anger in him, either. It should be. He is angry. At so many people, at so many situations, at himself. But no, this is disbelief.

"Nuh-no, nuh-no." What else is there to say on the matter? Imagine the most pathetic excuse at a sit-up you'll ever see, and imagine many more like it. Gravity's not his friend at the moment but Hawkeye never needed friends in high places to keep himself alive. A dozen attempts and he's winded and dizzy beyond belief. Everything's beyond belief, and he just hangs there. That's the most infuriating part. He just hangs there. Butterflies in his stomach? No, he feels worms.

[acroodawakening]

Hawkeye got to be the lucky one, the first person Guy saw out there.

Lucky lucky Hawkeye.

Guy's knife, one hewn from flint, was the first thing Hawkeye would see as he walked out of the underbrush. He was twitchy, shaking, afraid - probably just as afraid as Hawkeye, even if he was right side up.

That was something that could mean good things or bad things. If it meant he could empathize with others who were just as scared as he was, maybe Hawkeye had a chance. If he was scared enough to kill without questioning it...

"Who - who are you?" His body was shaking, yet his arm was steady. That was a very steady arm, as if he was someone used to keeping an arm steady through fear. Not good. Very not good.

Even more not good was the way he was staring at Hawkeye like he was alien - but then again, he was. Guy had never seen skin that pale, had never seen someone with a face that flat. It was unnerving. He was human but not quite human enough, not like any human he'd ever seen in his travels. All the faces he'd ever known had been in varying shades of tan to black. All the faces he'd ever known weren't so soft and doughy. They were all different, all different chins, all different eyes, but never so...flat.

"Did they tell you the same thing? The bug-people? About us having to kill each other?"

[69problems]

This was the worst possible time to be separated from his matesprit, the Signless thought miserably. He was tired, he was hungry, and he just wasn't as good at dealing with this kind of terrain as the Disciple was. She was the fearsome hunter, he was the guy who talked at people. Really it was only a matter of time before something decided it wanted to eat him, and growing up in a barren dessert hadn't really given him much skill at climbing trees.

He picked his way through the dense jungle, on the lookout for anything that seemed like it might be aggressive, alert for nearby noises. And those noises sounded like footsteps, barely a few feet away, but not the heavy tread of something large and reptilian (or several somethings large and reptilian, even worse). That was promising.

Of course it could be someone who'd stab first and ask questions later, which was less so. He started moving backwards, hoping to avoid a confrontation entirely, and a twig snapped under his foot loud enough to make him flinch. Welp.

[acroodawakening]

Something started rustling in the underbrush but in a quiet, shifty way, as if the source of it was good at making it difficult for things to hear where exactly rustling in the underbrush was coming from.

If it was a person, maybe they weren't the stabby type. Or maybe they just weren't the jump-out-and-go-SURPRISE stabby type.

Maybe they were the type to sneak up behind you and hold a knife to your throat.

It was cold, the knife against the Signless' throat. The edge was sharp but jagged. It would cut and it would cut well, but it would not cut clean.

"Hiii," came a young man's voice behind him. His tone was the tense, conversational tone that came when people were very stressed but also trying very hard not to be homicidal because of that stress.

And managing just barely.

"You're going to answer some questions and maybe, just maybe, I'm not going to slit your throat. Does that sound good? I think that sounds good."

His next words sounded too conversational to be coming from someone holding a knife to someone else's throat.

"I'm Guy. What's your name, terrifying horror-being of the night?"

[69problems]

Lucky for the Signless, he was smart enough to freeze. This reminded him much, much too much of the last arena, when Terezi had got him from behind with that carefully-sharpened wire, except this would be even messier if he made a misstep. He swallowed nervously, his throat pressing against the blade.

"Hello, Guy. My name is Signless, and I'll do my best to answer what I can."

And it was true, really. He felt bad for no one more than he felt bad for those who were new and scared and still coming to terms with a new situation they probably didn't even fully understand. He'd been there, once.

[acroodawakening]

The knife didn't leave his throat. The arm didn't slacken.

His tone was a little less taut, though, thanks to the Signless' willingness to cooperate.

"Wow, I don't even know where to start," the young man said. "Okay, so what are you? Are you with the bug-people that shoved me out here or someone that got kidnapped and brought here like I did?"

[69problems]

That change in tone was a good sign. Signless did his very best to keep his voice steady and soothing. Thank goodness for sweeps and sweeps experience talking down people more hostile than this.

"I'm a troll. We're a non-human race, from a world called Alternia, and as far as I can tell we're not actually as much like humans as we look. But almost everyone here is a human so it's far easier to just not bother with the differences."

The early attempts to educate the other tributes about troll biology and culture had gone over terribly. There were more important things to worry about, anyway.

"I was taken here, like you, but I've been here much longer, several human months. This is my third time in an arena -- that's what they call these places where they bring us to fight."

[acroodawakening]

"How is it - they said it was a fight to the death. Is this this first time they're making people do that?"

He added, mildly, "In which case, why is that my luck?" He paused. "I guess I shouldn't be directing that at you, I should probably be asking that of the universe, so never mind."

[formersurgeon]

Joan was on one of her walks, away from the camp she shared with John and Sherlock, when she heard something coming through the underbrush. It was very quiet, which meant that whatever it was, it was close. Too close to get away without drawing attention to herself. She quickly moved to press her back to the closest tree trunk for some partial cover, craning her neck to look in the direction of the approaching sounds.

[acroodawakening]

The sounds quieted down.

It wasn't that he'd heard her, but he was being just as paranoid about being noisy as she was. Every so often, he stopped moving to listen.

She would see him first, a young man, maybe in his early twenties, wandering through the brush quietly and carefully. His brown hair was bleached lighter in places from the sun and was wild in a way that suggested it had never once been touched by a hairbrush and only untangled with fingers every so often. If it had been longer, it probably would've already worked itself into freeform dreadlocks. His skin was tan and calloused, as if it was always exposed, and maybe it always was, given he didn't seem to want to wear his shirt. For some inexplicable reason, he had it tied to his right leg with vines.

He had a knife in his hand, one that seemed to have been knapped out of flint and it accessorized quite well with the bracelet on his right wrist, which was made of animal bone. And that, in turn, went well with the stripes stained into the skin of his chest.

Basically, his entire appearance screamed caveman or "trying too hard to seem like a fearless jungle warrior."

The way he started when he saw her, and pivoted, looking as if he was ready to fend off a predator, made it a clear it was more likely the former.

But he didn't attack. Not yet, at any rate. Clearly this was someone who tried to make sure his actions were measured and well thought out.

"Soo...hi," he said awkwardly. "Uh. Just to make things clear, I'm willing to kill you in a heartbeat but I don't necessarily want to. So this could go a couple of ways and I should warn you that what way it does mostly depends on what you do next."

[formersurgeon]

Joan realized she was lucky that he didn't seem to be the type to automatically attack. If he had been, Joan would have fought him, but he looked like he would have overpowered her, and easily at that. She had a knife, but it was in her pocket and she had no intention whatsoever of using it on anybody.

Besides, he looked like he actually knew how.

She moved her hands, palms up, so he could see them and see that she wasn't armed. She stayed where she was, though.

"Hi. I have no intention of hurting you. I'd like to talk, but I'd feel more comfortable if you put your knife away."

[acroodawakening]

He definitely knew how to use one and he'd used it on animals - and people - that were larger, faster, and more dangerous than most of the ones in the Arena.

"I'd kind of feel more comfortable if I didn't," said Guy. He rolled his shoulders in a gesture that was clearly meant to be the equivalent of him spreading his arms in a placating fashion. "How about we have a little compromise where I keep it out, but back farther away so if I were to attack you you'd have a head start or a chance to bash me in the head with a rock. Sound fair?"

[formersurgeon]

She didn't like it, but she doubted she was going to get a better deal.

"Sounds fair," she agreed. She watched, hands still outspread, waiting until he backed up to step away from the tree.

[acroodawakening]

He backed away, slowly, careful about his footing, making sure he wasn't backing into anything - or anyone - without taking his eyes off her. He seemed to be quite practiced in using his peripheral vision to be aware of his enviroment.

She now had enough distance between them that if he tried to attack her, she'd have time to get out her knife or even run for it.

"Sorry about the knife thing. I'm new here," he said, sounding more like someone who was apologizing for being late to class rather than someone holding a knife in her direction. "This isn't my first life-or-death situation but it's kind of my first forced battle to the death."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's out looking for food. The little he got from the Cornucopia has been used up, especially with Orc in tow, with the unappetizing exception of the gallon of spoiled ranch dressing. Howard climbs back up into his little tree hideout to take occasional chugs from that, but keeping it down seems to be increasingly hard the more days it's out. The resultant cramping and nausea isn't as bad as when he tried to eat one of the plants here, but it's not pleasant. He keeps having to take breaks in the canopy, curled up fetal style and with his arms around boughs like some kind of skinny, unhappy koala.

All the time he spent in the Training Center practicing climbing has been paying off, though. He hasn't spent more than a few minutes at a time on the ground nearly all Arena, and he's only slipped a few times (although they are evidenced by the scrapes down one side of his calf, staining his pants slightly with now-dried blood). The hems of his cargoes have been sliced off with his serrated knife because they kept getting stuck around his heels. His clothes are all damp from yesterday's rain.

He's taking a break in a tree, one hand still clenched over his side even though the cramp has long passed. The humidity and slim diet has been bleaching out his energy, and he's only just awake at the moment; he prefers to do most of his water gathering at night, anyway. Other than that, given that he isn't hunting and nothing here seems edible, his only task is following people and seeing if he can steal their supplies, which is neither an easy or safe feat. Even if it's self-defeating, he finds it hard to put more energy into it than he can spare.

He sits up when he barely hears someone beneath him. They're moving near-silently, and for one heart-stopping moment Howard wonders if they're hunting him. If he's given away his location. He tries to quietly get his feet beneath him so he can take off through the trees when the wet bark beneath him rips off the wood, and he slips off the branch. He manages to catch himself with both arms, but without enough leverage to pull up, and the crash of leaves and bark below him give him away. He kicks with his dangling legs, trying to hoist himself back up, belly bared with how his shirt is hiked up around the branch.

[acroodawakening]

The new guy just looked up at him with a mildly bemused expression and raised an eyebrow.

"Is there anybody here that's not really bad at this?" he asked, now slightly confused by his descent into the madness of what appeared to be the dumbest battle to the death possible.

He'd trapped one person, managed to sneak up on another and hold a knife to their throat, and Joan might have been in trouble if he was more hostile, especially since she seemed to want to avoid killing. (Though to be fair, he might have been in trouble, too, if he'd gone after her, because that said nothing about her capacity for self defense).

Still, as far as murdering stalkers of the forest went, so far he just hadn't happened on anyone he felt it was right to kill. They were all a little too bad at this survival thing. It would've felt a little like stabbing a Croco Pup.

Guy nodded his head back and forth as he looked up at the boy dangling above him.

"Try to lean over the branch for some leverage," he called up as a suggestion.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"I know how to climb, asshole!" Now that Howard's entirely blown his cover, he doesn't mind sending a few insults down along with the flurry of leaves coming loose from the branch. He manages to get his heel hooked over another branch and spread his weight a little, allowing him to readjust and climb back up.

He looks down, immediately casing the weird new guy out for weapons. As always, his heart climbs up inside his ribs when there are new people, and he fears he'll be staring down the point of a bow or spear. But it's just a new guy, evidently just put here because his clothes are relatively clean compared to Howard's.

"Are you alone?" he hisses.

[acroodawakening]

Guy looked around. Before admitting to being alone he wanted to make sure the boy in the tree probably was.

"Yes."

Guy kept staring up at him.

"I'm not going to kill you unless you try to kill me. Not that it means you should hop down that tree, that'd be crazy, but I'm new. Kinda working out how this whole thing works. I'm not about to start stabbing everybody just because someone told me, not without getting a better sense of what's going on."

He kept staring up at him and his face went a little sad.

"You are way too young to be in here, what are they thinking? They put kids in here?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Good." Howard doesn't seem to relax any, but leisure is a luxury in this place. He stays where he is, grabbing another branch to stay balanced. The other hand finds his knife, folds around the handle of it. There's a slice in his palm from where he cut himself on the blade.

"Hey, if you want to cite my age as a good reason to not shank me, I am totally cool with that. Just saying that you shouldn't count all the little kids out. There's a ten year-old around here who can skin you alive before you blink."

[acroodawakening]

Guy shook his head because the boy didn't get what he meant.

"No, I'm not saying that kids don't have the capacity to bite your face off. I've seen my little sister take down a full-grown koaleopard by herself. And when I got kidnapped a while back she almost bit the throat out of one of the people who did it," he said conversationally, making a wrenching gesture near his throat. "He came really close to bleeding to death."

He chuckled lightly. "She's six - you know how they are at that age."

Sandy's violence levels were inversely proportional to her tininess. And she was protective. Thank all the stars in the sky she was protective of who she loved and that she loved him because Guy sure never wanted to cross her.

"So that's actually not really surprising, but it's still wrong to force you into this when you've got a lot more living you could be doing."

He paused, and added, "Not that it isn't wrong to force anybody into this, but for you, it's wronger."