Fashion Streak

“Ease up darling, you’ll tire yourself out.” She held the man’s collar as he leaned over the floorboards on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the bakery’s door just a few metres away,  dim yellow light poking through the gap onto the orange floor. His left eye fluttered, trying to keep open against the trickle of blood coming from the cut in his forehead.

“Stop fidgeting. I’ll have that wound dressed and you on a plane back home in no time.” He heard a pair of handcuffs click open behind him. He tried taking a deep breath but spluttered as he inhaled. He started coughing and was dropped onto the floor, a foot placed into his back.

“Jacques say that again, over.” The radio on Juliet’s shoulder buzzed.

“I said I have the, package, I’ll be with you—

“Now.” The door behind them swung open, a voice coming from behind them.  “I see you’re still with our friend. Hurry up, the police will be here soon.”

Juliet let out a long sigh,  “Sorry. Looks like there’s been a change of plans.” He felt the cuffs close around his wrist, and heard the clips of a briefcase open and close. He tried looking over his shoulder, but Juliet put her hand on his head, lifting it up. He gagged even more as a strip of white fabric was forced into his mouth before being covered with duct tape.

“Bit much, isn’t it, Jacques?”

“Not at all.”

In the small pool of red congealing by his head, a drop of purple fell from above. He felt a prick in the back of his neck before Juliet pulled him up to feet. Hanging upright, he saw Jacques stroll over to the door, opening it slowly. He could hear a long breath drawn behind him.

“You’re sure about the package?”

“Naturally.”

“I thought Italy vas supposed to be sunny.” The water splashed higher against Vernher von Brawn’s leg with each step he took along the alleyway.

“It rains everywhere, eventually,” The man next to him said, looking forward. They heard a crash behind them, and turned around to see a man in a suit come staggering out of a bakery and stumble across the alley into a wall.

Vernher’s face lit up. “Vell look at zis…” The man was kneeling on the ground, clutching his head with his eyes closed. The man let out a long groan as Vernher seized the briefcase handcuffed to his arm. “Domerater! Ve found ze courier!”

Domerator stepped through the puddles towards Vernher’s soft chuckling, pulling a long knife from his jacket. It made a cracking noise as something in the handle was bent. The courier started moaning and shaking his head, looking up at Vernher as his arm was lifted higher.

Domerator forced a wry smile as he looked at the gag. “This,” he pointed at the gag, “is a good thing.”

The fabric suppressed a howl erupting from the courier as Domerator severed his left hand at the wrist. It fell into the water, steam wafting off the cut. Vernher smiled as he watched the courier stagger upwards and take off towards the street. He fell onto his hand, resuming his howl. Domerator placed a foot in the courier’s back as Vernher reached into his coat. One hand holding the briefcase against his chest, Vernher aimed his Walther at the courier. The courier made one effort to stand up, pushing off with his right hand as Vernher softly breathed,

“Nein.”

One bullet buried itself into the the back of the courier’s head, which snapped to the ground, the blood starting to mix with the water running through the ancient cobble of the alley. The two started walking away from the alley, contented. Domerator stopped and turned for a moment, the rain pinging off his stalhelm.

“Hmph.” He turned back around and caught up with Vernher, who had taken to hailing the Mercedes in the dim yellow light of the street they had walked onto.

“Yooooooooooooooouwhoooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Vernher called over. “Ve have ze package!” They crossed the empty street quickly.  Leaning against the car were two more, one dressed in a vest and jeans—

“Domerater, thank gott. I’m sick of vaiting here vit zis LARPer.”

The other one wearing a great helm and surcoat. The great helm swivelled to look at them, but said nothing.

“Skulls!” piped up Vernher before he was interrupted.

“It’s Von Teufelheim to you.” Skulls opened the driver side door and made a muffled click through his glove to the other side. “Domerater. Get in the front.” Domerator swung into the car after Skulls and heard the doors behind him click shut. Skulls checked his rearview mirror, looking at Vernher with his hands folded over the case in his lap. “seatbelts gentlemen, we don’t need the police finding us for something stupid.” He swung the mirror to look at the opposite rear seat, looking at the Templar’s great helm scraping against the roof of the car.

Skulls looked down as he keyed the ignition, letting out a long, slow breath. The Templar looked at the side mirror in front of him, watching his purview grow smaller.

“Vuela!”

Jim looked through his real Ray-ban sunglasses up at the bright blue sky.

“Vuela!”

He smiled at the salty wind blowing off the azure Ligurian sea.

“Vuela!”

He laid back in his boat as he took another drink of his Slovenian Brandy.

“Vuela Pal-o-ma!”

“Vue—“

Jim grimaced at the phone at his right, now ringing. He let out a sigh and picked it up. “Conquistadores Limitado, This is Jamie Martins, please hold.” He put the phone back down. He was about to cast his rod when the phone rang again.

He shook his head and looked at the phone again, lip curled.

Brigadier Hugo Afonso.

Looking at the name he froze in place, then suddenly began scrambling to his left to grab it. He managed to knock over the bottle of brandy and was forced to watch in despair as it carried the phone off in a stream of “premium” liquor. He righted the bottle and slowly took his view away from where the phone had fell into the deep blue sea and looked right ahead of him, far over the horizon. He took a deep breath as his wellness advisor had instructed him.

“What a beautiful day!” He smiled, easing up and getting ready to cast. As he lifted it high into the sky the phone to his right began flipping about the boat, vibrating madly.

“No!” with his both his hands he clutched for the phone, holding it firmly in triumph.

“Brigadier Sir! I was wasn’t expecting a call!” His fake smile faded as he saw his fishing rod float away from the rear of his boat.

“What?” Came a female voice, “It’s not Afonso it’s Fiona, I’m signing the contracts in your office today and you’re the only one with the keys so get the bloody hell down here and open the place up!”He laughed nervously,

“Well Fiona… I’m ahh…” he looked around, ocean as far as he could see, “In Genoa at the moment… coming all the way up to Milan could be a hassle…”

“I know where the other eight bottles are Jim, don’t think—“ hearing this Jim yelped and lost grip of his phone, watching it sink into the blue. Jim stood up in his boat, glaring at the sun.

“Fuck.“ He thought to himself.

“Oh wait.” He said, “I’m by myself.” He looked up and took in a deep breath.

He sighed.

Jim stood up in boat, heading for the front. Looking at the souvenirs from all over Europe arranged around the helm he smiled a little. He gave a Colosseum snow globe a playful flick. It became unstuck and fell on the boat and into the ocean.

“Should we knock?”

Konrad Ford looked to Rouge, who was staring emphatically at the glass door, silent.

“It should be open by now,” Konrad looked at his watch. “It’s 9:30.” He looked around the empty street.

Rouge kept looking through his sunglasses at the door. “I don’t have time for this.” He said in a low growl before outstretching one arm and grabbing the door handle. He shook the door back and forth to no avail. They had a scraping sound on the footpath behind them.

“Hullo!” They turned around to see a small man in a grey jumpsuit dragging a mop and bucket behind him. “Name’s Scruffo, Is this where we sign the temp contracts?”

The two at the door were silent for a moment, “uhh… yeah.” Said Konrad eventually. Rouge took his sunglasses off and immediately put them back on.

“I don’t have time for this.” He said again, walking down the road away from the office.

“Um!” Konrad yelled after him, trailing off.

“Oh no.” Said Scruffo. “Is it locked? This must be some kind of test.” He took a keyring from his breast pocket and starting trying the keys.Konrad looked from the keys to Rouge in bemusement,

“Umm, how did you get the keys?”

“I didn’t. When I was a cleaner in the pentagon there was one more key than there were locks. I feel it, this has to be the one it fits!” The lock stayed put as the key wormed it’s way around. Suddenly a loud cry erupted from behind them.

“Oi!”

The birds in the trees around the street took to flight.

Scuffo and Konrad spun around.

Rouge kept walking away.

Konrad looked to the back of a blonde woman who had emerged from the gate a few metres along the building, “Excuse me!” The woman turned around. “The door is locked.” She looked at him for a few moments.

“Yeah.” They stood in the quiet for a few moments. “The dickhead supposed to open this place up is screwing around in Genoa or some shit, come into the carpark, we’re doing the contracts there.” She walked around the corner, Scruffo and Konrad following her into a mostly empty carpark going around the rear of the office. There was another building at the edge of the lot. She sat down one side of the trestle table set up. Scruffo and Konrad sat down on two of the three chairs on the other side. “These are your contracts with the DYAD Group. You’ve already seen them you just need to sign a paper copy.” Scuffo began flipping through his contract, pen in hand,

“Hmm.”

“Oh! Name’s Fiona by the way.” She straightened her hair.

“Fiona!” Konrad looked up from his contract, “As in Fiona Taylor?”

“Yup.” She nodded with a smile. Konrad closed his contract,

“What happened? You rocked a tank top in Venezuela, now it’s a pantsuit and a bob cut.”

“I was indie back than, now I’m handling for—“

“Lucius Blackwood Happened!” In the gateway behind them there stood a blonde androgen, posing determinedly, his line being slightly too late for effect. He began strutting towards the table. Behind him followed Rouge and another, hulking figure.

Fiona blinked at Lucius and looked back at the table, “Oh, Scruffo, sorry about the run in with customs.” She clicked her fingers and a man came from around the corner of the building holding eleven kilograms of steel. “This must be the “Heavy Polish Machine Gun” you listed. The man dropped the WKM-B on Scruffo’s lap. “We got this back from customs though, you’re welcome.”

“Ahh…” said Scruffo as he struggled under the gun’s weight, “I mean a heavy polishing machine, like a floor waxer.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Fiona, tracking Lucius as he came closer. “Floor Waxer, Street Sweeper, whatever.” She picked up the signed contracts and put them in a folder.

“You don’t get it, I’m a cleaner, not a mercenary!”

Fiona held up the folder. “Too late. Up you go!” The chair Scruffo was sitting on tipped over to the side. Konrad stood up and walked away, putting his hand to his ear.

“Call me.” He mouthed.

Rouge and Lucius sat down, the large figure standing over Scruffo. Konrad stopped when he was behind Fiona, he look at Lucius and mouthed “call me.” Rouge had already signed his contract and slid it over to Fiona. She looked at him quizzically. He slid his glasses further up his face.

“I don’t have time for these distractions.” He stood up and starting walking out of the carpark. He stumbled as his hip hit a car but swung back into alignment and kept walking straight.

“So Miss Taylor…” Lucius laid back as he flicked through the contract, “I knew DYAD had hired a woman but I didn’t think it’d be the legendary Fiona Taylor.” Konrad started to walk back over,

“I know right? I’ve already tried,” Fiona smiled nervously, “But you” Konrad sat down on the table, running his eyes over Lucius , “Please tell me you’re not accounted for.” Fiona pulled Rouge’s contract away from Konrad,

“Hate to tell you guys this but I’m… just the handler. Not actually working with you.” Lucius  cast his eyes at Fiona, Konrad threw his eyes over to Lucius.

“Girl is me.” Ragana clicked her pen and handed Fiona the contract. Konrad gave Lucius another look and gagged before standing up and heading for the gate. Lucius glowered at Konrad as he left the carpark. “Is okay.” Said Ragana, turning to Lucius. “I think you look like girl too.”

Lucius turned his glare to Ragana. He quickly scrawled twelve numbers onto the front of his contract and passed it to Fiona before standing up. As he walked away he put his hand to his ear and looked at Fiona,

“Call me.” He mouthed.

Fiona looked up at the giant Lithuanian Woman. “I like your hair. Mine looked like that before I sold out to corporate.”

“Thanks.” She looked down to her feet, seeing Scruffo wheeze under the machine gun. “Would you like some help little man?” Scuffo nodded. She took the machine gun off his chest with her right arm and pulled him up with her metallic left arm.

“Ah... Thank you.” Scruffo coughed and looked at the ground. “Nice… arm.”

“Made in Poland by Kozio Limited. Is good arm.” She turned her head to the side. “You are not pig like other men,” she pointed at him with her prosthetic, “I keep you safe.” Ragana grabbed Scruffo with her left arm and walked out of the car park. As he Scruffo was dragged away he looked mournfully at his now abandoned bucket and mop.

Bob had a smile on his dial. He was getting paid an extortionate amount of money to do his normal job, in Milan of all places. He checked his day planner, “oops! I’m running late!” He quickly finished straightening his white shirt, tightening his tie and fastening his belt before stepping out of his rented Fiat onto the street, making sure he took his lunchbox off the passenger seat. Bob took off down the street walking quickly, a spring in each step. The Australian lady said that he’d meet the rest of his team behind an old bookstore. Unable to read any of the signs Bob grew worried, peering down a series of empty alleys and backlots until he heard bouts of arguing. Bob took in a deep breath and powered down the alley the yelling was coming from. As he rounded the corner he was met with:

“You defile yourself!” In the rear lot there was a southern European man in army fatigues leering at an old man in a suit.

“You ignore the future!” Both of them were held from behind by an armoured man each,

“Cut it out you two, we have a job to do.” The two men restraining them said in unison. Parked in the lot there sat a white Alfa Romeo. More distracting than the argument or the many prosthetic arms glinting in the sunlight were the rifles hanging from slings over each of their necks. Bob froze in the entrance to the alley, shaking his head.

Suddenly the 800,000 dollars made sense.

With his arms held behind him, the European managed to kick the other man in the knee. Both men restraining swung their charges away,

“That’s enough!” They said at the same time again.

Bob skirted around the fight nervously, towards the Alfa Romeo. The phone on its bonnet started ringing, flipping side to side on the carbon fibre.

“Uhh…” Bob looked from the phone to the fight, all four men still engaged. As it was on its last ring Bob swept up the phone and put it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Mister Watson, we need your help.” It was the Australian woman he had spoken to before.

“Um, which… one?” None of the others noticed him.

“You’re not Wat— Oh! You must be Bob!” She let out a laugh. “I know you haven’t signed your contract yet but the client has requested your assistance immediately— Welcome to ChennaiCare inspired by (((((((((Calvin Klein)))))))))™ by the way.” She said dryly.

“You!” the old man piped up particularly loudly, “know nothing of what is ‘supposed’ to be!” Bob put his other hand over the phone before the other man could shoot a reply.

“Is…” Started the woman on the other end of the phone, “is everything alright?” Bob looked over and saw the European had gotten an arm free,

“Yeah! Yeah, just some office drones yelling at each other. I don’t think they’ve had their coffee yet.” Suddenly there was a cough on the other end of the line, loud enough to make him drop the phone. The other four had stopped arguing.

The two men had let go, “Who are you calling a drone?”

Bob was rubbing his ear, looking at the speaker icon now coloured in.

“Alright guys,” came the voice on the phone, “Chennai just caught wind of a package they’ve been chasing. They were supposed to be picking it up last night but their courier got hit; they’ve reckon it was some goons working for PrimaBiomed, the German Biotech company here with North Face. Apparently they’re holed up at a mechanic shop at 12 Via Pasenetti, similar team to you guys but you should have the drop on them. Get moving.” The old man picked up the phone and the European took a key ring out of his pocket and started walking towards the car, the other three behind him.

“Ahh…” Bob looked unsurely at the white sedan, “Can we all fit in there?”

The man in the suit turned to Bob. “We can. You’re not.” Now that he wasn’t yelling it became clear he was Scottish. The other men started snickering.

“Thanks for the offer,” the European said, standing over the driver side door, “but we won’t be needing you and your tactical lunchbox for this one.” Bob narrowed his eyes at them, his lunchbox had two ham sandwiches his wife back in America made him, possibly the two best ham sandwiches present in the world. He raised his unloaded sidearm,

“I’ll take point.” He proceeded to walk to the other side of the car, pushing the old man much harder than he planned on before sitting down into the middle of the backseat. The other four stood around for a moment but started filing into the car.

“So.” Said the European, keying the ignition, “what experience do you have…”

“My name is— They call me Bob. And my background? Need to know. What I do call you clowns?”

“Polis.” Said the driver, medic with the Croat 103rd Infantry Brigade, four years with the Hellenic Army and I switched sides a fair bit in the Syrian Civil War.”

“Oh my…” said Bob, looking between the rifle and shotgun in the laps of the men next to him, and the lunchbox in his. “That must have been really interesting, Croatia.”

“Yeah, it was fun until the Serbs started shooting Muslims on sight. I just couldn’t kill Serbs when they were doing God’s work. That’s about when I left and joined the Hellenic Army, I have dual citizenship and it looked like they were going to actually get into the war then.”

“Well I,” said the Scot in the passenger seat, hand on chest, “Actually stayed somewhere, namely Her Majesty’s Royal Scottish Dragoons.” The more Bob heard the more his spontaneous machismo began to ebb. “Name’s Watson by the way. I was there for much of the research into human augmentation that led to what Sweet and Eric are wearing right now. I prefer the metal finishes though, why have a new arm made out of beige polymer when you could be seen with cold hard steel! ” The car pulled out onto the road, Polis’s hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel.

“My name is—“ The two men either side of him glared at each other. The one to the left started again,

“I am Eric Segura,” the car hit a bump his helmet hit the roof, “US Army Engineers,” he lifted his prosthetic arms up, “lost my arms disarming an I-E-D.”

“Don’t you have robots for that sort of thing?” Asked Bob.

“Yeah… but ahh… the software to run the console was on a zipped file.” He looked out the car window, “Winrar is free software… until it isn’t…” Bob watched as he continued to stare out the window at the passing buildings. He looked at the two prosthetic legs to his left,

“Did you lose those disarming an IED?”

“Actually that was a snake bite, you know how around about 2014 they said you can’t use belts to make tourniquets?” He pointed his thumb at himself. “Had these for almost three years now.”

“You see,” started Polis, “some people like Eric or Sweet Sweet here lost part of themselves in battle, unlike others…” Silence hung over the car for the rest of their journey.

“Go on, you said you’d take point.” Pressed against the building’s wall Eric hung back from the door.

“I did say that didn’t I?” Bob held his gun in sweaty hands as he moved up to the door.

“Us three are in position.”  Said Polis over the radio, “how are you two?”

“Ahh… all good here.”

“Okay then, three,”

“Three.”

“Two.”

"Two,"

“One!”

“Oh god.” Bob kicked down the door and swept into the dark room, Eric right behind.

“We’re clear so far. No sign of movement.” Stepping over a ground hoist Bob continued to look through the shop floor. On the far wall he spotted something.

“Fuck!” Bob fired three rounds, breaking the silence. He barely heard the other three come into the middle of the floor over his own breathing. Four torch beams lit up the spot where he had been shooting.

“Eric, Sweet, on the doors.” Polis continued walking closer. “He’s dead, that’s for sure. It wasn’t you Bob though, this blood is at least twenty minutes old. Watson find a lightswitch.” After a few moments of staring at the corpse the lights came on, illuminating a long stream of blood pasted onto the floor.

“W-what the fuck happened here?” Bob’s gun started shaking in his hands. Polis snapped a rubber glove on, kneeling down next to the body.

“Looks like a crater wound…” said Polis as he unzipped the man’s tactical vest

“What?” Watson strolled over, “you mean he was bitten by a shark?”

“No… the skin’s not torn,” Polis poked the edge of the wound, “it looks like it’s… mashed?” Bob tried looking at the wound but quickly turned his head away.

“So… something blunt? That’s pretty normal, right?”

“Not…” Polis rubbed his hands together at the palms, “like this… It’s not important.” He suddenly declared, standing up. “He’s dead, and the blood streaks indicate more than one person bled here, and it can’t be the assailant, he couldn’t move himself with that much loss.” He held his gun in the air and walked towards the door, “uhhhh… Bob. Call the Australian, have her tell ChennaiCare that our snatchers have been snatched.

“Moulay Youssef Alaoui, cousin to King Mohammed VI of Morocco vas found dead by Milanese Police last nice, shot through ze head in an alley…” Vernher looked up from the laptop, “ze courier vas the King of Morocco’s cousin?”

Skulls looked around the busy café to see if anyone was particularly interested in their conversation, “Nein,” he pulled the laptop closer to his side of the table. “I think ve hit ze wrong man. Have ve actually inspected the contents of ze briefcase?” Across the table the Templar shook his helmet, holding up the case and tapping the clips. Skulls watched Domerator come back to the table with three cups of coffee and a milkshake.

“Herr Domerator, our courier turns out to be cousin of Mohammed ze sixth, and now I’m not sure that ze contents are really,” he looked around the café, “it. I think ve should open it.”

“Well,” Domerator began, watching the Templar tap the front of his helmet. “Hold on.” He went back to the counter.

“I’m telling you,” Skulls began again, “someting’s not right. Ve need to check before ve tell ze Australian woman anything.”

Domerator came back to the table with a straw. He sat down next to the Templar who nodded, poking the straw through a hole in his helmet. “I agree” Said Domerator, looking at Vernher. “We didn’t examine why he fell out of that bakery.”  All them of them looked at the Templar, enjoying his milkshake. “Open it.” He took it off his lap and onto the table, opening the clips.

“Fuck!” Domerator slammed his fist onto the table. Everyone in the café turned their heads to look at the normally quiet Canadian.

“Vhat is it?” Asked Skulls. The Templar spun the briefcase around to reveal its contents. “Paper und  a rolling pin. Damn.” Vernher put his head on his hand.

“Ve have to call ze Australian woman, ve did the right thing at the right place at the right time. If ve failed it’s because Prima Biomed didn’t tell us enough.” He took the laptop back from Skulls. They were silent for a while, save for the slurping of the Templar’s milkshake. Skulls turned to look at Domerator,

“Vhy is he even here?”

“Ahhh, Frau Taylor!” Vernher said to the laptop, hands together. “I’m sure you’ve heard ze news by now.”

“Yeah I heard you iced the King of Morocco’s cousin!” Skulls began mashing the volume down key. “That was sick.”

“Ja, unfortunately it vas not ze courier. He vas intercepted earlier it seems, zere’s nothing of value in ze case.”

“Shit. Do you guys have any idea who did it?” Skulls sighed.

“Nein.” The Templar grabbed the laptop and turned it around to face him and Domerator. He held up his hand to the camera in a static wave.

“Hey… Templar.” Skulls began to turn the laptop back around but the Templar began to furiously tap the top of it, and after scrawling on a serviette, held it up to the camera.

“I saw.”

Fiona took off her sunglasses and put her hand above her eyes, “saw… what?” The Templar took another serviette and held it up.

“The one who took it. Flat-chested lesbian.” Vernher looked at the note,

“How do you know she vas a lesbian?” The Templar wrote some more. Domerator stood up.

“I’ll get more serviettes.” The Templar showed his new note,

“Tall. Wide. Short hair. Flat chest.” Skulls snorted,

“Sounds like a man.” The Templar shook his head. “You said short hair,” Skulls narrowed his eyes, “How short?” As the Templar put his hand level to just above his shoulder Fiona cast her eyes to her shoulder-length hair and coughed nervously.

“What colour?” She asked. The Templar pointed to the cross on his surcoat. “Red? It was dyed?” He waved his hand horizontally. “Not sure, okay…” she started laughing to herself, much to Skulls’ annoyance.

“Something funny Frau Taylor?”

“Yeah… you got jumped by Lauren Jackson.” She started cackling as the Templar tilted his head. “A netball player, that’s what she sounds like, a net—“ The Templar closed the call and searched for “netball courts Milan.” When it loaded he pointed at the nearest pin. Skulls raised his eye brow.

“Ve are going to a netball court?” The  Templar nodded emphatically.

“Herr Domerator,” Vernher called over to the counter. Ve are moving.” As they stood up Skulls looked to the Templar,

“Vhy didn’t you tell us zis before?” The Templar shrugged. “Ahh, I see, you just like looking at zese lesbian netball players, ja?” The Templar leant in close to Skulls, and shook his head very, very slowly.

“I—“ Juliet winced and inhaled sharply. “Am fine, stop asking.” She put the phone on speaker and walked across the bloodied tiles to the lightswitch. “We both got hit, but I’ve taken it fine, Jacques is a bit worse, as your results predicted. I think he needs to go back to Morocco.” She stopped and put a hand against the wall, the other against her side.

“I think you both need to go back to Morocco, you don’t sound very well at all.” She resumed her plodding across the room,

“No, I’ve gotten the package and the Moulay but I’m not finished, and I don’t need Jacques’s help me do them. Just call for the drop, okay?” A loud sigh came off the other end,

“Sure, Juliet, just don’t get yourself killed. We’re all very proud of you.” The call ended. Juliet flicked on the light switch, illuminating a small room. On the bed there lay an unconscious man in a torn suit, several empty blood packets lay on the table next to him, two Vektors lying over each other. Juliet walked back over to the window and peered through the blinds. She picked up one of the Vektors on the table and loaded it, sitting down on the rug next the windowside chair.

“Keep breathing Jacques…” She gave the chair a playful spin. She moved back across the rug a bit, resting against the window side wall, aiming her Vektor at the door.