"Die, you little yellow suckers; die!"

Nikita pulled the trigger with vigor, a small smile playing across her face. The defenseless dandelions fell without a sound.

Nikita brushed loose tendrils of hair out of her eyes with an elbow, hands occupied with various utensils of weed genocide: a squirt bottle of dandelion killer and a bag of powdered pesticide. Unused to the "drudgery" of yard work, she was taking immense pleasure in the completely normal task.

Sometimes, she mused as she went about her regimen of death, Section assignments could be almost…tolerable. Her mission, with no choice about acceptance, was to establish and ingratiate herself with the occupants of a small neighborhood in a suburb of Chattanooga, Tennessee. Something out-of-sorts was going down in the small Southern town, and it was Section’s job to stop it. "Something" was actually the small-time manufacturing of components of several cutting-edge biological weapons. Birkhoff had traced their source to Ridgeview, Tennessee, and discreet inquiries had led them to the west edge of town. After that, the trail went colder than Madeleine’s smile. Every business, every person, everything seemed to be clean. Operations deemed it was a Situation worthy of investigation.

Nikita was tickled at the chance to "go suburban," at least temporarily, for she had always been a child of the city. Section had purchased a house in a small neighborhood in the target area: a lovely yellow house on the corner of a cul-de-sac with a huge front yard. A huge front yard full of dandelions.

"Are you our new neighbor?"

A voice startled Nikita from her reverie. A slight, dark-haired girl and a rather large dog stood before her. Before Nikita could answer, the dog decided he was going to make friends. Being a Great Pyrenees, neither Nikita nor the girl had much choice in the matter. Suddenly entangled in a leash and sitting on the ground, Nikita reached across a warm, furry body to shake the girl’s proffered hand. "Nikita Dumas. I just moved in last weekend."

The girl returned Nikita’s smile with a lopsided one of her own. "Vivian Raven. I live across the street." She gestured to the grey house directly across the cul-de-sac with a huge porch. "This monster here is Gawain. He’s pleased to meet you." Warm doggy breath in Nikita’s face confirmed this statement.

As they disentangled each other, Nikita and Vivian exchanged small talk, commiserated over moving hassles, and just chatted. "My dad’s an artist, paints cowboys mostly, but we move to suit his commissions. My mom writes, so she’s fairly portable. Still, it's kind of hard getting attached to a school, just to get ripped away again."

Nikita murmured assent, remembering her frequent childhood moves and how hard it had been each time to fit in to a new school.

Gawain began to get impatient, slowly dragging Vivian down the street. As she attempted to stay in earshot, she called back, "My mom’s made her mother’s special spaghetti sauce. Since you’re barely moved in, you wanna join us for dinner?"

Nikita called back, "Sure. Okay if I haul along my husband?"

"Great! The more the merrier," came the reply. "Can’t wait to see who you snared! Six-thirty!" Gawain spotted a squirrel, and girl and dog disappeared from view over the hill.

"Who I snared, indeed," Nikita muttered to herself. She picked herself up, decided to concede defeat in the battle with the little yellow flowers for at least that day, and headed around to the garage. Just then, a black Jeep turned into the cul-de-sac and pulled into her driveway. "Lucy, I’m ho-ome, " she murmured. Still, a smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. Setting down her weed weapons, she called out, "Michael! You’re home early!"

It was a glorious summer evening, so the Ravens decided to dine outdoors on their porch. It was still early enough in the season that mosquitoes weren’t yet a nuisance; Gawain was napping happily in the garage, and the aroma wafting from the kitchen was divine. Nikita could not imagine a more delightful evening. Michael was even wearing a green shirt with (gasp) khakis. Leaning on the railing next to him, glass of wine in hand, she said to him, "I didn’t know you owned pants that weren’t black."

Smile lines crinkling around his eyes, he murmured back, "You don’t know everything about my closet."

"Ah, but I’m going to find out in these next few weeks, aren’t I," she teased back gently. In response, he laced his fingers through her free hand, brushing across the ring on her fourth finger.

Anna, Vivian’s mother, emerged just then with a bowl of spaghetti in hand. A warm, open woman with only a hint of a Cajun accent, she beckoned them to the table. Vivian and her father, Geoffrey, joined them. About the same height as Michael, Geoffrey was lankier, with a long mustache. He could have easily stepped out of one of his own paintings, windblown and rough.

As any good family recipe is, Anna’s spaghetti sauce was outstanding. Conversation and laughter flowed easily, and Nikita treasured every one of Michael’s rare laughs. In this scenario, he was a computer analyst working for a new company in town, but Geoffrey discovered the artist hidden within him, and the two talked painting. Anna had a wicked sense of humor, and she soon had Nikita in stitches, telling some of the stories from her days as a small town journalist. Vivian flitted back and forth between the two conversations, comfortable in both.

As Vivian winked surreptitiously at her, Nikita realized it had been quite some time since she had been this happy. Left knee leaning against Michael’s right, she exchanged glances with him and smiled contentedly. The conversation hit a lull, and they fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the night.

************

The next afternoon, Nikita was out in the yard again, ostensibly to plant flowers around the mailbox but in reality just making a mess. Apparently, the only thing she had the talent to grow was dandelions. She was contemplating the little piles of dirt around her when a van - red, not Section, then - turned in to the cul-de-sac. It stopped before Nikita, and a tiny whirlwind emerged.

"You must be Mrs. Dumas. Am I saying that right? I hope you don’t mind, but I ran into your realtor, Angie, isn’t she just the sweetest, at the Kings’ get-together last Thursday, and she told me your name. Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Deb MacKenzie, down in 424. These two munchkins are mine, Ben - " she indicated a quiet, blond little boy of about ten " - and Sarah - " a skinny little redhead about two years younger than her brother and as wild as he was still. "My husband’s Mitch; you’ll have to meet him sometime soon. Speaking of which, why don’t you and Mr. Dumas - I assume there is a Mr. Dumas? Yes, oh, delightful - come over for dinner tonight? Moving is simply beastly; you don’t want to be cooking right now. I couldn’t find any of my pots and pans for the first month we lived here. We’ve been here six years in May, and we absolutely adore it. Sarah, quit pinching your brother. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, dear. Sarah, are you listening to me?"

Nikita hid a smile and managed to slip her name in before Deb took off again. "Oh, how lovely! Is that foreign? Ben, don’t just stand there; go change for practice! Anyway, it’s marvelous to have someone in that house again. Carl was so lonely after his wife died - forty-seven years together, it was so tragic - and I’m glad he found someone new to make him happy. Still, " and she dropped her voice secretively, "I’m glad they chose to live at her place. I for one would not trust that Gertrude Hines as far as I could throw her. " In a normal voice again, she called, "Sarah, get *off* the roof of the car. Oh, dear, I must fly. Ben has baseball practice in twenty minutes all the way out in Lakeshore. It was splendid meeting you! Don’t forget; drop by around seven tonight and we’ll feed you. Sarah, now!"

Nikita exchanged a small smile with Ben and waved farewell to the family. Looking up, she saw Anna Raven grinning widely at her from her front porch.

"I take it that was your first encounter with Deb? She was almost restrained." At Nikita’s look of disbelief, she shook her head ruefully. "Usually she’s far more, shall we say, enthusiastic." Nikita shivered in mock-horror.

"At this rate, though, I’ll never have to cook again," she called back.

Anna nodded with a fond grin on her face. "Deb may talk too much, but she’s got a good heart, and her fried chicken is purely divine. It’s her traditional welcome wagon meal; I’d advise taking her up on her offer."

Later that evening, Nikita heartily agreed with Anna’s assessment, although she thought Michael might disagree. As Deb launched off into yet another story, Michael’s eyes began to glaze over.

Poking him, Nikita leaned over and whispered, "Be nice. Look at it this way, we now have direct intelligence on everyone in this cul-de-sac. "

"Far more than we ever needed or wanted, " he murmured back. She poked him again.

That evening, they had vicariously met the entire neighborhood. The Wilsons, who lived in between the "Dumas" and the MacKenzies, Joan and John, with two sons, Matthew and Simon, "two absolutely horrendous children, but their parents are simply darling." On the other side of the MacKenzies lived the Bernhams. Kenneth and Rosie had three daughters, Tabitha, Maureen, and Felicia. "Darling people, if a bit pretentious." Next door to the Ravens was the Reids, Becky and Nathan with daughter, Kelly, and son, David. They had only moved in the previous summer, but were "absolute dears." To the right of the Reids were the Cisks, another "sad tale." Poor Laura had Alzheimer’s, and Gene was simply devoted to her. Each Sunday, one of the families from the cul-de-sac would take them dinner. Nikita volunteered herself and Michael for the Sunday after next. This earned her a delighted beam from Deb, who reached across the table to pat her hand. "Aren’t you just the sweetest?" she exclaimed. Nikita admirably refrained from laughing as Michael kicked her under the table.

Later, they bid each other good night, and Michael and Nikita strolled back down the street to their home. He looped his arm around her waist, pulling her in close. "Well, we know it’s not Deb who’s selling biological weapons," he said into her hair.

Nikita leaned back to regard him. "She doesn’t need any outside means; she’d just talk them to death." The unexpected levity startled a laugh out of Nikita, and she tucked her head back on his shoulder. When they reached their front steps, they sat down, not ready to go in yet. The night was one to be enjoyed. The grrrreeeeets of the crickets from the nearby stream floated on the night, and it wasn’t yet so humid that the stars were obscured. A gentle breeze took the edge off the lingering heat from the day. Occasionally, a car would pass on the main road, two points of light and a muffled rumble in the distance. Otherwise, it was still. The two sat there for a long while, not speaking, just touching.

************

Michael had the ability to seduce women with a single glance, kill with nary a blink, and defuse terrorist situations with the greatest of ease, but he could not get the lawnmower started. He was rather glad Nikita had gone out with Deb, Anna, and Becky so she wouldn’t see him quietly kicking the tires on the infernal machine. He was also glad she was leaving the house. He went "to work" everyday, in reality running other missions from a decrepit warehouse, while she was given primary concern with the Ridgeview scenario. It was not incredibly high priority, at least, not yet, so it was a sort of breather for them both. Well, it had been, until the grass had the audacity to start growing. e muttered nasty things under his breath in several languages, then returned his attention to the problem at hand. Never before had he been in a position requiring him to mow a lawn, and as an essential skill it didn’t rank very high on Section’s list. He knew that there was a cord somewhere that he was supposed to pull to start the thing.

****************

When Nikita returned home, she found Michael sitting on the front steps, wringing wet, with little pieces of grass stuck to his bare chest. Plopping down beside him, she said, "Foolish boy. What inspired you to mown the lawn in the middle of day in the middle of summer in the middle of the South?"

In response, he leaned over and kissed her breathless. He murmured, "Wave to the neighbors," against her lips.

She grabbed his head between her hands, said, "They’ve already left, " and proceeded to return the favor. Almost smiling, he slid an arm around her shoulders.

Idly picking at the little pieces of grass spackling his delightfully bare chest, Nikita said, "I bought us towels." This statement was odd enough to earn a double take from Michael. She smiled. "Don’t look so shocked. There was a whites sale at Dillards, and the other ladies have seen our guest bathroom, so they know we don’t have towels. Now we do."

"One thing, please," he said.

"Anything, my knight in shining grass clippings," she said.

"Please, please tell me they are not monogrammed."

Nikita threw her head back and pealed with laughter. "No, but I did pick you up a black tee shirt at the Gap. I’m just not used to seeing you in color. Oh, and Becky let me borrow some of her weed killer to see if it does any better. "

Peering across her, Michael said, "I see a third bag…"

Nikita grinned at him salaciously. "That’s *my* secret

************

A month or so passed. Nikita learned how to make casseroles; Michael not only conquered the lawnmower, but the edger, weedwhacker, and leaf blower as well. Their yard, except for the few odd dandelion patches, was the envy of their neighbors.

The gentle warmth of spring sank under the oppressive heat of high summer, and the entire neighborhood languished. By midafternoon, tired young bodies were strewn about the lawns, water pistols and wet bananas and the splattered remains of water balloons the remainders of their morning’s play. The Ravens’ porch was the unofficial gathering place of the women of the neighborhood, each showing up sometime during the course of the afternoon to share a glass of iced tea, discuss the weather, and simply enjoy each other’s company. Gawain, their giant dog, spent most of his time under said porch, standing guard from the relative comfort of the shade.

Backyard barbecues were an unspoken weekend standard, though they rarely began before dark, the mosquitoes being mildly preferable to the miserable heat of the day. By the light of citronella candles, frankfurters, hamburgers, many different parts of chicken, tofu burgers (an oxymoron if Nikita had ever heard one), those eensy cocktail weenies, sundry and various vegetables, pork tenderloin, even half of an action figure (one nobody recognized, with long brown hair and a mysteriously blank expression), steaks, turkey breasts, and a really, really giant slab of bologna were roasted, grilled, flambéed, blackened, and seared to perfection. (Yes, Michael *was* rather handy with the cooking implements. Nikita was duly impressed with his ability to master the fire, stoking it skillfully, bringing to the perfect pitch and temperature before carefully, delicately placing the selected piece of edible flesh in the ideal position … but then she realized just how greatly she was digressing.)

However, the grand event of the summer was the Fourth of July barbecue. The Wilsons had a huge pool in their backyard, i even had a slide, and they could best accommodate the entire neighborhood. That "darling young couple on the corner" had easily become welcome additions to this community, and they were both secretly glad that the mission had dragged on long enough for them to attend. Nikita was tickled because she would get to see Michael barbecuing (although she had learned he was not technically barbecuing, he was cooking out; barbecue was really something else entirely, involving secret sauces and vast amounts of pulled pork), once again taming the wild flame, harnessing it to do his bidding, his face a blushing red from its heat, and she realized she was digressing again. Michael was privately pleased because he had found out what Nikita’s secret bag contained. Nothing too risqué, mind you, there would be innocent husbands around.

Nevertheless, it was a bathing suit, something he had never seen her in before, and, he paused a moment to quell the smile that fought to play upon his lips, it was a two-piece.

***********

It was chaos, but it was a *good* chaos. Children and dogs were everywhere: kids chasing dogs, dogs chasing kids, kids riding dogs, kids in the pool, (no dogs in the pool), kids out of the pool, dogs on the picnic tables, dogs under the picnic tables, dogs sniffing indelicate places (hence the phrase "Lucky dog"), and that was just the kids and the dogs. Adults were milling around, laughing, talking, swimming, but most of all eating.

Nikita weaved her way through the crowd, smiling at newfound friends, dodging the aforementioned children and dogs, all while balancing two plates and cups. Reaching her haven of Michael’s lawnchair, she handed him his plate and cup and promptly fell into his lap.

"Thorry," a gamin little face peered up at her, all blond hair and no front teeth. He grinned at her, then scampered off.

Attempting to extricate herself, Nikita found Michael’s arms around her waist to be a hindrance in her attempts. She had learned to appreciate these small moments, so she looped one arm comfortably around his neck and proceeded to attack her meal with the other. Michael eyed it distrustfully, then said, "What…is it?"

She looked at him, mock-horrified. "You mean to tell me you have never had a chili dog before?" At the shake of his head, she tore the plate holding a hamburger out of his hand. "You have not fully lived until you have had a hot dog smothered in chili." She swung her legs so that they draped over the side of his and set her own plate down. "Close your eyes," she instructed as he just barely wrinkled his nose at the proffered bun. "You’ll never eat it if you see it coming."

Obediently, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Naughty thoughts ran fleetingly through Nikita’s head, but she remembered they were in public, so she restrained herself to simply feeding him a portion of her hot dog that was slowly oozing chili.

"So, are you going to survive?" she asked with a twinkle. "Or is the shock of such ghastly food too much for your system?"

In response, he gently took the hot dog from her grasp and broke off a piece from one end. Very seriously, he handed her the broken-off piece and kept the rest of the chili dog for himself.

"I’ll get you another one," he mumbled, mouth full. Swallowing, he asked, "Have you always had this penchant for chili dogs, or is it a suburban development?"

Idly wiping a spot of chili off his chin, she said, a little bit wistfully, "I remember my very first chili dog. I must’ve been seven or eight, and it was one of my mother’s good days. We had just moved back to the city, and it was the most glorious summer day I had ever seen. I had been upset because our new flat was so far from the park, so I couldn’t walk there anymore. I had been pestering her ever since we moved to take me back, and, I don’t know, maybe it was the weather, maybe it was a fit of kindness, whatever, she took me over there that afternoon."

She paused, eyes brilliant and focused on the distance. "She played with me there, hide-and-go-seek, pushing me on the swings, just lying on the ground looking at the sky. She-" a half-laugh escaped her lips, " - she taught me how to climb trees that day. I had never done it before; I was always afraid a branch would break under me, but when I saw her sitting up there with her hand outstretched, I knew that if the tree could hold her, it could hold me, too. She took me up, branch by branch, until we were as high as we could go. She was never much for touching me, but sitting beside me that day, she reached over and stroked my hair. She said, ‘You have your grandmother’s hair,’ and smiled at me.

"On our way home, we passed a hot dog vendor, and we stopped, something we had never done before. She bought me my first chili dog, saying it had always been one of her favorites. I decided, even before I tasted it, that I would love chili dogs as well. I can remember standing there, holding it, hoping I liked it, because I had firmly committed myself to loving them already. I got lucky."

Nikita finally turned back to meet Michael’s eyes, having avoided them during her tale. She read the unspoken question in them and gave another half-laugh, this one with a slightly bitter edge. "Don’t get me wrong; my mother could be a bitch and usually was." She rolled her arm over, showing him a little white circle on the inside of her elbow. "Her current ‘boyfriend’ did this with his cigarette the very next evening while she sat there watching." The bitterness was more than just an edge in her voice, and she sighed.

"Even after she kicked me out, though, I still thought of that afternoon every time I passed a hot dog stand. When I hated her the most, I clung to that one day as proof that she really did love me. Sometimes it would have been easier if she had never had days like that. Then she could have been someone I could fear and hate unhindered by sentiment, more of a evil stepmother than a mother, but I never regretted those memories. Sometimes, though-" her voice caught, "I thought those hot dogs tasted that much better for the tears caught in my throat."

After a moment, Nikita shook herself out of her reverie and, forcing a smile, said, "Come on; let’s go swim before the fireworks start."

She stood up and tugged on Michael’s hand. He stood up but didn’t follow her.

She looked back at him, saying, "What? Don’t tell me you’re going to say we have to wait an hour because we just ate?" He said nothing, just pulled on her hand and wrapped her in a fierce embrace. He had no words of comfort or sympathy for her; he could not make right past wrongs done to her, no matter how much he wanted to. He just held her. Resistant at first, her arms hesitantly crept around his waist, then hung on for dear life. She slowly relaxed against him, letting go of the tension her memories had stirred up. After an endless moment of stillness in the midst of the chaos, she raised her head to look at him and quietly said, "Thank you."

He reached up and smoothed down her hair. Locking eyes with her, he said, "My pleasure."

Nikita smiled brilliantly, not forced this time, and said, "Now we can swim."

Later that evening, the fireworks were spectacular.

***********

Days passed. Summer changed into fall. Fall changed into winter. Winter gave spring and summer the slip and went straight back into fall. It was winter again, and they were forced to eat Robin’s minstrels (and there was much ejoicing…yeeeeeh). Then, it was summer again. (Not really, but I’ve been gone so long it feels like it. Plus, a little Monty Python never hurt anyone. :) )

One particularly sultry evening, Michael arrived "home" to find Nikita on the front steps lacing up her running shoes. Noticing him, she graced him with one of her million-watt smiles.

"Come running with me?" she invited. "It’s finally tolerable outside, and I could use the company."

In return, he gave her what she had come to think of as Michaelsmiles: a slight crinkling around his eyes and a lightening of his expression. "I’ll be right out."

(Warning! Warning! Gratuitous Bare-chested Michael scene ahead!)

He soon emerged, clad only in black running shorts and those short socks with the little pompon things on the heels. Sitting down to put on his shoes, he noticed Nikita staring at his feet, he said, with a perfectly straight face, "All my socks were dirty." When her eyes flicked up the rest of his body, she forgot about the socks.

They stretched together, bodies easily falling into Section-drilled habit. If hands that reached out for balance lingered, neither commented. If eyes strayed, neither noticed - or at least pretended not to. They moved fluidly together, as if with one motion. When they finally began running, Michael unconciously shortened his stride a few inches and Nikita lengthened hers until they strode as one.

It was that special time, not quite day or night, when the flies had clocked out and the mosquitos weren’t yet busy. The setting sun was a gauzy ball of fire resting on the horizon, wrapped in a bank of clouds. The rest of the sky was an indeterminate shade of blue, neither the brilliance of noon’s blue or the inky darkness of true night. It was a strange, halfway sort of moment, as if time had slowed down long enough for this evening to be savored.

Everyone seemed to have the same idea of enjoying the night; lawnmowers growled in countless yards, neighbors stood talking in driveways, everybody and their dog was out walking, and children’s laughter echoed between the houses. The gentle sounds of a neighborhood reveling in the warmth of a summer evening blanketed the night.

Nikita flopped down on her newly dandelion-freed lawn, filled with the alert tiredness that only comes after exercising. She tugged Michael down beside her. She peeled off her socks and shoes and started dragging her feet through the grass.

Never one to use words where a mere look would do, Michael stared at her with a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

She flashed him a grin. "I’m running my toes through the grass. You always read about people running their toes through thick fields of grass, frolicking freely and happily, and I’d never done it before. It seemed appropriate."

"Are you?" he asked quietly.

"What? Happy?" She looked a bit startled at the question, but her face relaxed into a contended half-smile. "I wouldn’t say this is exactly how I expected my life to turn out or that I would want to spend the rest of my life here, but, in the moment, I really am. Happy."

It was on her lips to ask if he felt the same, but old instincts of self-preservation made the question die on her lips. Michael saw emotion flick across her face, and he was fairly certain what she was thinking. Not trusting words, which had so often come between them, he reached over and turned her to face him. He cupped her face in his hands, softly stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. He locked eyes with her, never saying a word.

He has dragon’s eyes, a small, disjointed part of her mind noted. A harsh, crystal green when he’s in mission mode, almost gray when he’s playing some role for Section, but only this deep, earthy green when he… Looks at you, an even smaller voice whispered.

When his lips captured hers, her eyes were still wide open.

************

It was a week later. Michael’s "mother" suddenly developed a debilitating disease (a broken hip being far too cliché), and the devoted son and daughter-in-law agreed to move in with her. Far away. Very far away. Immediately.

For once, closure surprised Michael. He had been unaware that they had gained information that could lead to identifying the suburban bombmaker. A little matter in Uzbekistan had called him away for several days, and when he returned, he found he had already left to "comfort his mother." Nikita returned the next day.

Arriving in his office, Michael found Nikita comfortably curled up in "her" chair, pages of new mission plans in her hands, her glasses perched on her head, and a pen wobbling between two fingers. Suppressing the smile that fought to creep into his eyes, he sat down and booted up his laptop, attacking the mountain of paperwork that never seemed to shrink.

The two worked in a comfortable silence for nearly an hour, when Michael suddenly asked, "Who was it?" Nikita nearly dropped her papers. Neither of them had spoken yet, and she had never known Michael to break the silence first.

"Becky. Becky Reid," she answered.

He almost visibly started. "Becky Reid? The lady who invited us over for coffee every Thursday? With the pastel kitchen?" Something that would be labeled surprise in any other person crept into his voice.

"The lady who gave me dandelion killer that actually worked," Nikita countered. "On a whim, I had Birkhoff run some tests on the stuff. Apparently it contained three of the four components of the biological weapons that had been streaming out of the small town. A thorough investigation found an extensive set-up for production of all four components in the Reids’ basement. Next to their old couch."

Michael opened his mouth as if to say something else, but a dim roar sounded from Command and Control, followed by Birkhoff’s shout, "Michael! Operations wants you, now!"

A wry smile twisted Nikita’s face. "Duty calls." Michael actually paused a moment, until Nikita shoved him. "Go. Stay safe."

Three nights later, Nikita let herself into her apartment, hungry, tired, and miserably alone. She had gotten accustomed to having Michael in the house with her, even if they weren’t in the same room, just knowing he was there. She hated coming home to a dark apartment.

Flipping on the light in her kitchen, something on her kitchen table caught her eye. It was a white paper sack with a note on it. In a precise handwriting she had never seen before but immediately recognized, the note read, "Heat for fifteen seconds if cold."

Inside was a chili dog.

Carrying her midnight snack to her balcony, she didn’t feel quite so alone. As she gazed out at the night sky of the city, she never noticed the shadow that detached itself from the building across the street and slipped back into the darkness. A shadow with very green eyes.

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Silea, click HERE!