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The Riches of Xerxes

Summary:

The first official political overture the small desert nation of Xerxes makes towards Amestris in over fifty years happens a year after the end of the Ishvalan Civil War. Though it is expected to concern Ishval, and the border between Amestris and Xerxes, or perhaps Amestrian use of Alchemy in the war, is has nothing to do with the bloody conflict, or it's relation to Xerxes' rich history with alchemy.

It is a simple, polite appeal to the Amestrian Government – an invitation for an Amestrian automail mechanic to join the Xerxesian court.

Notes:

Unbetaed

Will probably eventually have semi graphic automail surgery and aftermath details.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first official political overture the small desert nation of Xerxes makes towards Amestris in over fifty years happens a year after the end of the Ishvalan Civil War. Though it is expected to concern Ishval, and the border between Amestris and Xerxes, or perhaps Amestrian use of Alchemy in the war, is has nothing to do with the bloody conflict, or it's relation to Xerxes' rich history with alchemy.

It is a simple, polite appeal to the Amestrian Government – an invitation for an Amestrian automail mechanic to join the Xerxesian court.

"Bit odd," Havoc mutters, after a copy of the letter has gone around the office a few times. "What do they need an automail mechanic for – isn't Xerxesian medical alchemy, like… world famous?"

"For given the value of famous, yes," Roy agrees, fingers crossed together and a thoughtful look on his face. "They say early Amestrian alchemists learned from Xerxesians. We still use a lot of their symbols in our alchemy – but if Xerxesian alchemists are world famous about anything these days, it's their reticence. No outsider has seen much about the way they go about things these days, if they even practice alchemy anymore."

Of course there are rumours, there are always rumours, and there's history – the great and wealthy kingdom of Xerxes, alchemically on top of the world and widely known for their wisdom and knowledge and the miracles they achieved… who reached too far, tried to achieve the power of gods, and got struck down by said gods for it. How accurate that is, no one knows, but it's known that some disaster hundreds of years ago devastated the kingdom, killed most of its people, and it never fully recovered. Now it's people can only barely scrape by, living in huts and caves and underground, and they don't treat with outsiders much beyond the absolutely necessary.

Beyond trade routes established to get Amestrian goods through Xerxes to Xing, there's never been much interest for Xerxes, except maybe for it's grand history and it's many ruins. It doesn't help that Xerxes, as far as anyone knows, has never really reached outside, keeping to its isolationist values – and since it has little to offer to other nations… no one reached back, either. As far as anyone knows, Xerxes hasn't advanced at all scientifically or technologically in the last hundred years.

Which makes the fact that they want specifically an automail mechanic, an craftsman of one of Amestris' most advanced technology, rather interesting, doesn't it?

"I hear they took a lot of Ishvalan refugees during the war," Fuery says – he's the one holding the letter, reading it through.

Roy hums grimly. There's that, though took in might be stretching it a bit. Xerxes didn't do much to protect its borders – there was no need, with a desert all around their kingdom. So, when Ishvalan refugees sought to escape the conflict and set out to the desert, there was nothing but the terrain itself to stop them. Who knows how many Ishvalans made it through the desert, on foot and probably hurt…

"Why'd they send this to our office?" Breda asks, casting a look at Roy.

"They sent it to Grumman who sent it to us," Roy sighs and leans back in his chair. "The Lieutenant General wants us to find a suitable mechanic and then escort them – along with the Fürher's greetings – to Xerxes. The mission isn't exactly time sensitive, but since we're in the East…"

There's probably many reasons it was thrown their way, really. Way to keep those uppity brats from East busy, easily justified with them being closest to the matter at hand. It also wasn't exactly vital as diplomatic missions go – but it was still a diplomatic mission to a foreign nation, which means that Roy would want to handle it himself instead of leaving it to any of his subordinates. Especially since it's to Xerxes – what Alchemist wouldn't give an arm and a leg for a glimpse at how Xerxesian alchemy is these days? So, it was expected that he'd go himself. Which would get him out of people's way for a while, and maybe open up a slot for someone else to be promoted to his place, depending how long it would take.

How annoying. Grumman can be one clever son of a bitch when he wants to be.

"Right," Roy says while his team exchanges looks. "I want a list of all automail mechanics of East on my desk by the end of the day – if you can figure out their feelings about Ishval and if they have any history with the Ishvalan Civil War, that'd be a plus. Get to work."

"Sir!" his team answers, and immediately get to it, Fuery and Fallman both heading out to probably check records, while Havoc fishes out a phone book and Breda gets the phone. Beside Roy, Hawkeye gives him a look.

"Should I start preparing for travel?" she asks mildly.

"If you please," Roy says, turning to his paperwork. "We'll take Breda with us."

"Understood."


Over the course of next two days, they list and investigate various automail shops in the east, Roy privately wincing at how many there are, and how many of them are less than a decade old. The Ishvalan Civil War had been a boon to the business, and a lot of mechanics from the south moved in to take advantage of the situation. Lots of new up and coming mechanics, cutting their teeth in on a lot of freshly traumatised soldiers.

It left a lot of them… unsuitable for a mission likely to involve Ishvalan refugees.

"Known for his Anti-Ishvalan sentiments," Breda says, crossing out another potential automail shop. "This one has a No Refugees sign on his shop front, which probably means the same thing. This one has a pretty high record of automail rejection syndrome. This one has had two patients die on the operation table…"

Roy rubs a hand over his forehead, already imagining having to reach for the Southern District to find someone sensible in Rush Valley, when Breda offers him a potential. "Rockbell Automail, in business for decades before the Ishvalan Conflict even began."

"Rockbell," Roy says, lifting his head. "Any relation to the two late Doctors Rockbell?"

"Yep. Son and daughter in law of Doctor Pinako Rockbell, the head mechanic of the shop," Breda says and lays the file on his desk. "Their daughter is currently an apprentice mechanic in the shop, too."

Roy grimaces at that, but accepts the file, leafing quickly through it. Old, well established shop, known for their skill and efficiency, with very high praise from a lot of former customers and no known record of either deaths on operation table, auto mail rejections, or any anti-Ishvalan sentiments. There is a slight issue of the head mechanic being an old woman and the only other mechanic being a young girl, but…

It's promising.

"Phone," Roy says, and Hawkeye quickly lifts it on his desk, turning it toward him so that he can dial easily.

"Rockbell Automail, Pinako Rockbell speaking," a woman's voice answers the phone promptly, her tone brisk.

"Doctor Rockbell, my name is Roy Mustang, I'm a Lieutenant Colonel from the East Area Headquarters – may I have a moment of your time?"

"Certainly," Doctor Rockbell answers, no noticeable change in her tone. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant Colonel? Aside from automail, presumably."

"I am currently looking for a skilled automail mechanic to take part in a diplomatic mission, likely to involve Ishvalan refugees," Roy says. "Your shop came up as highly recommended."

"Hrm. What kind of diplomatic mission? Don't the military have their own automail mechanics?"

"There are some, but none in the Eastern Headquarters," Roy admits – probably because the East has such a surplus of civilian mechanics these days. "And I'll be frank, the likely length of this mission makes it difficult to use any of our military mechanics. The mission is to Xerxes, and will likely take weeks, if not months."

"… Xerxes?" now the old woman's voice changes, growing a little incredulous.

"Yes, the Xerxes Royal Family sent the Amestrian government an appeal for a skilled automail mechanic to join their court, and I was tasked with the mission of finding one," Roy explains and leans back, turning to look out of the window while he talks. "You would be well compensated for your trouble, however long it would last."

"Is this… a permanent position? In Xerxes?" Still incredulous.

"We don't know as of yet, the treaties are yet to be drawn. You would naturally be part of the negotiations and your wishes and needs would be taken into account," Roy assures her. "I understand this is a bit much so suddenly, and I will hold it in no way against you if you refuse outright – though I am hoping that if that is the case, then perhaps you, as a well established mechanic, might be able to point me in the way of more suitable candidates…"

Honestly, with a shop as old and as well established as hers, Roy doubts very much she would take him up on the mission – she probably has a whole lot of regular clients and steady stream of income, and no need to move. But, it never hurts to ask.

The phone line is quiet for a moment as the old mechanic thinks. "I need to talk with my apprentice for a moment, can I call you back in, say, two hours?"

"Certainly," Roy agrees, and gives her his office number. "We'll be looking forward to your call."

"Right – one more thing. You said it's likely to involve Ishvalan refugees," Doctor Rockbell says. "How'd you mean?"

"We don't know for sure, the appeal didn't explain the need for a mechanic. But during the Ishvalan Civil War, many Ishvalan refugees fled to Xerxes. So we thought it safe to assume the two are connected."

"Ah," the mechanic says knowingly. "And they put a State Alchemist in charge of finding a solution."

Roy swallows. Ah. She knows about him. It's not entirely surprising, but… "They did indeed," is all he says. There's no real explanation he can give, no excuse. It is what it is."

"Hm," Doctor Rockbell answers, noncommittal. "I will call back in two hours."

And she does, accepting the mission with two conditions. The military would help her pack up her entire shop and all the materials and tools would be transported with them – which was understandable, even if it tripled the estimated convoy size. The other condition was that she was taking her eleven year old apprentice with her. Both conditions Roy readily agreed to, tasking Havoc and Fallman with her packing while the rest of the team arranged the convoy.

"Guess we're going to Xerxes then. We're going to need a lot of camels," Breda muses.

"Yes," Roy agrees and sighs. It would be a hard journey and probably a hard mission, and likely one for very little gain in the end. Still. Xerxes. His master would've killed for the opportunity. Might as well take full advantage of it, and learn whatever he can, even if it's only from broken murals on ancient ruins.


 

Meeting Pinako Rockbell and her apprentice and granddaughter Winry, Roy can quickly figure out why the old woman agreed to the mission, despite her age. Her granddaughter is severely depressed.

"It hasn't been the same since her parents died," Doctor Rockbell – please call me Pinako – explains as they watch the blond, downcast girl carry her luggage into the train. "She doesn't have any friends and I can only do so much to distract her or cheer her up – and right now, your usual work in an automail shop just reminds her of Yuriy – her father. So, a change of scenery is in order."

"Change of scenery to another country," Roy muses. "Can't go much farther than that, I guess. But you realise your work is likely to be much the same in Xerxes."

Pinako agrees with a snort, and takes out a slender pipe and a packet of tobacco. "I expect so," she agrees, pinching a bit of tobacco into her pipe. "And that's good. Winry is an automail mechanic, through and through, and she's going to be great one day – she's lost her passion right now, and serving the veterans of Ishval isn't helping, but I don't want this to be the end of her career. A new set of clients, people in need, that's what she needs."

And the fact that they're Ishvalan refugees, just the sort of people her parents died to help…

Roy hums and then holds up a hand. "Would you like a light?"

Pinako gives him a look and then nods in agreement – she doesn't even flinch at his snap, or the little flash of flame unnaturally curling into her pipe. "Well, that's handy," she muses and drags a smoky inhale. "So, what's your goal on this mission? Not much in Xerxes for the military, from what I hear."

"No, not much at all," Roy agrees. Small poor nation with no technology, no army, and probably no science either… "Xerxes is the birthplace of Amestrian alchemy – I suppose I'm hoping there's something there still left to learn."

Pinako peers up at him, her expression unreadable behind her round glasses, and then looks down. "Alchemy and Ishvalan refugees in need of new limbs," she muses and exhales a small cloud of smoke, watching as Hawkeye shows Winry into the train. "So. How long do you think the Ishvalan Civil War will affect our lives, going forward?"

Rest of their lives. Rest of his life, at least. "A little while longer, at least," Roy says.

"Hm," Pinako agrees. "I don't have an opinion about the military one way or the other. Most of my clients are military, and inside their uniforms they're people the same as everyone else. Their amputations are just as messy as civilian ones. Just as messy as Ishvalan ones, I expect," she muses. "The war was what it was, nothing I can do about any of it. Can't help but wonder, though, about you State Alchemists. Was there something you could've done."

It's not a question. Of course it isn't. State Alchemists had done something about the war – they'd ended it, abruptly and horribly and without mercy. Roy looks down, squeezing his hand into a fist and then relaxing it. He says nothing – there's nothing to say.

"Well, it's not my place to question these things," Pinako muses after a long moment of quiet.

Roy offers her a smile that feels stiff and awkward even to him. "May I carry your bags onto the train, Doctor?"

"It's Pinako," the old mechanic says and takes a final puff of smoke before upturning her pipe into the metal ashtray on the side of the ticket booth. "And you may indeed."


 

They take train to Youswell, where Breda waits for them with three carts, six horses and pair of mules, which would be their ride to the edge of the desert, where they and all their luggage would be moved onto thirteen camels, which would hopefully be enough to carry the Rockbell's belongings. Though they hadn't brought much in the way of clothing or personal effects, just enough to fill two bags each, the materials and tools from their shop took two of their three carts, and almost spilled over to the third.

"It's not just tools and automail parts, is it?" Hawkeye asks Winry, trying to tempt the girl into talking. "You brought the necessary tools to make automail from scratch."

"Furnaces, grinders, sanders, casts, things to make new casts with, raw materials…" Winry agrees, hauling the lighter crates and boxes to the cart while Breda, Hawkeye and Roy help her and Pinako with heavier things. "Granny figured we would need to make everything from bolts to wires and all the plates, so… we have everything we need to do that."

"We have all the necessary stuff to make about twenty automail limbs – twenty five, if it's only arms," Pinako agrees. "After that, we'll run out of metal."

"Rubber will run out too if we need to do more tricky wiring," Winry agrees.

"Automail sure is complicated," Breda muses.

"Can you use your tools if it turns out that there's no electricity?" Roy asks – he'd asked Pinako to prepare for the eventuality that Xerxes didn't have an electrical grid, but a lot of the equipment still looks electrical.

"It used to be that all this had to be done by hand, so I had all the necessary hand tools as well as electrical ones. We brought a small generator too, just in case," Pinako agrees. "I'm a bit more worried about fuelling the furnaces, though. Harder to get the right temperatures if it turns out we can't get the necessary fuels."

"I might be able to help there with alchemy," Roy offers, thinking about what kind of array could be used for a furnace. It would need to be activated by an alchemist, of course, but overall it wouldn't be too hard to write an array to convert lesser fuels into something more concentrated and useful…

"Guess we'll see when we get there," Pinako agrees.

Eventually, all their things are loaded up on the carts and they're ready to get on their way – though not before the local military official gets his word in. After dealing with Lieutenant Yoki and assuring the man that, no, they didn't have the time to join the man in a dinner and to hear about the woes of Youswell, Roy takes the reins of the carriage Pinako and Winry are riding on, while Hawkeye and Breda take the two others. With Breda taking the lead and Hawkeye holding the rear, they set course for the desert.

Pinako and Roy keep an amiable conversation as they go, talking about Pinako's history as an automail mechanic, where she learned, where she'd worked. It's interesting enough to hear about the very different life she'd lead, how she'd advanced the field of automail with small contributions to joint and plate design, how she's been the first to use certain types of hollow screws and plates. Apparently originally, automail was one solid, heavy piece from bone to end – it was about five years into Pinako's career that mechanics began utilising automail mounts instead of bolting full metal limps into people's flesh.

"A lot of painful operations back then," Pinako remembers, shaking her head, pipe in hand. "Things are a bit better now. Socket operations are still long and arduous and carry their own risks, of course, but they're much easier on the body than what we did back in the early days."

"I suppose everything advances over time," Roy muses. 

"Good thing too," Pinako agrees. "Better material, better techniques, better tools, and we have a better grasp of anatomy and medicine too – and I can't even tell you how much it helps, having electrical lighting as opposed to gas light, too. I once did automail operation in candle light – now that was a dark time."

Roy snorts appreciatively at her pun, and then realises something. "There's no knowing what kind of light conditions you might have to operate in Xerxes," he says then, frowning. "They might not have even gas lighting."

Pinako sighs. "I can whip up lanterns if I have to," she mutters around her pipe. "And at least there won't be any shortage of sunlight."

Young Winry, sitting behind them in the back of the carriage, looks up. "Do they have anything in Xerxes?" the girl asks, frowning.

"We don't know much about them, if I'm honest," Roy admits. "They're not very outgoing people, and prefer to keep to themselves."

"They don't have electricity, they don't have gas," Winry says, shaking her head. "How can they deal with automail if they don't have anything? Do they even have wrenches in their country? Do they know what a wrench is?"

"Guess that's for us to find out," Roy says with a smile.

"Sounds like a waste of time to me."

"Winry," Pinako says admonishingly. "Whether they have our modern comforts or not, they obviously have a need, else they wouldn't have called for an automail mechanic. Someone in their country is hurt – that's all we need to know."

"I mean… sure," the girl mutters, pulling her knees up and hugging them. "I guess."

Pinako hums and takes another inhale of smoke. "It's going to be a challenge, for sure, but it's one we're equipped to handle," she says firmly. "And it will definitely be a change of pace."

Winry doesn't answer, sighing and looking away and returning to her sullen, sad silence.

Roy glances backwards at the girl and then at Pinako, silently asking permission. Pinako shrugs and blows out another small cloud of smoke, and Roy looks backwards at Winry. "You know, it's pretty impressive, such a young girl being already an apprentice and all. I suppose it runs in the family, but still. Most girls your age are still in school."

Winry makes a face. "Granny did put me in school, when it was really busy during the war. It was..." she thinks about it and then settles on, "boring."

"A girl raised on automail mechanics doesn't have much to learn from a small village teacher," Pinako admits ruefully. "Aside from history, physical education and maybe a bit of physics and geography, Winry is years ahead of her peers."

"And none of that other stuff is going to help me with being a better automail mechanic," Winry shrugs. "Except maybe physics but they only taught the basics."

"Ah. A veritable young genius, then," Roy muses, suitably impressed. "Ever thought about a career in the military? We could use a few genius automail mechanics."

The glare Winry gives him speaks volumes. "I hate the military," she says coolly and then very firmly turns her back to them, staring at the cart trailing after theirs, driven by Hawkeye.

Roy looks at her over his shoulder and then turns his eyes ahead. Beside him, Pinako rests her pipe against her knee and says nothing.

It's a while before they resume their conversation.


 

It's nearly nightfall by the time they reach the next milestone, a small pond just at the edge of the border. Breda's contact in the desert – a Xingese man named Han – is waiting there with their camels.

"It is three days from here to Atossa," Han explains while they try to figure out how to load the Rockbell's belongings on the camels. "We will travel in the morning and in the evening. At noon, we will rest and at night we will sleep."

"Too hot to travel around noon?" Roy asks, considering one of the furnaces.

"Best to rest, rather than risk being struck down by the sun," Mr. Han agrees. "Though we can, if we must, but it is a strain – especially for the elderly."

"Watch who are you calling old," Pinako says, waving her pipe at the man warningly. "You're no spring chicken yourself, sir!"

Mr. Han laughs. "Apologies," he says. "But the desert is hard if you're not used to it. It drains you, drinks away at your sweat, and it gives nothing back. Now how do I pack this thing?" he motions at a bench drill. "It will not fit into the saddle bags like this."

"Let me," Winry says, stepping forward. "We can take it apart and store it in pieces."

They pack that evening and spend the night in Mr. Han's tents, plotting their route through the desert. Not that there's that much to plan, really. It's pretty much straight cut across to the capital city of Xerxes – if the word even applies to it. It is the highest populated town in Xerxes and where the royal family reside – but from what Roy knows, it's little more than a slum, really. Huts and hovels and caves.

"Anything you can tell us about the place would be appreciated," Roy says, unhappy with how little he really knows.

"Not much to say," Mr. Han admits. "The people are kind enough and they buy our goods occasionally, but they keep to themselves."

"Do you know anything about the royal family?" Roy asks hopefully. "I know the king has two kids, but – "

"Emperor," Mr. Han says and chuckles. "I've seen him twice on the streets – he's a bit of a strange one, really, doesn't look much like an Emperor, but then Xerxes isn't much of an empire, is it? I haven't ever met his sons, I don't think I've ever even seen them, but I think they're around the young Miss' age," he nods towards Winry.

"Emperor," Roy repeats slowly, arching his brows.

Mr. Han shrugs. "That's what they call him. The Immortal Emperor. Holdover title from days of yore, I suppose."

Roy folds his arms, humming. What a mighty title for such a small and withered nation. "I don't suppose you have any idea why the, uh, Immortal Emperor needs an automail mechanic?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Mr. Han says with a shake of his head. "Might be because of all those new Ishvalan citizens. Who knows." He stands up. "I'll go check up on the camels and then I think it's best we turn in for the night. Sleep well and drink plenty of water," Mr. Han adds. "More than you think you need. You will need all of it."

Roy nods and looks at Pinako and then at Hawkeye and Breda. Neither of them seem to know what to think about this new development either. The only title they'd ever heard used for the Xerxesian royal ruler was king and even that wasn't particularly well respected, all things considered. But if Xerxesians themselves call their ruler Emperor, and none of them in Amestris even knew about it, then…

They really have no accurate information about Xerxes at all, do they?

"Young princes, huh," Pinako muses and hands a bottle of water to Winry. "And they're your age, too. Since it was their father who asked us to join his court, maybe we'll meet the princes. Wouldn't that be nice, Winry?"

Winry makes a face and accepts the bottle. "I guess it could be interesting. I didn't even know there were princes left in the world. Isn't that a bit archaic?"

Roy hums. "Xing has dozens of princes and princesses, more if you count the families of previous generations of princes and princesses," he muses, and smiles. "So I think they statistically might actually outnumber other sorts of government officials."

"There's about as many monarchies as there are republics," Hawkeye says and looks at Winry. "I bet they're curious about what kids from other nations are like, with how isolationist their country is. I bet they'd like to meet you, more than us dull adults anyway."

Winry hums and looks away. "Yeah, I kind of doubt we'd have anything in common," she says. "What does a bunch of desert royalty care about automail, anyway?"

That is the question, isn't it?


 

Though crossing the desert is in no way easy, it's not as hard as Roy had feared, either. Mr. Han is an old hand at desert travel and knows just how to make the travel as comfortable as possible, going as far as to occasionally impose a drinking break when he thought they weren't doing well enough with water.

They ride from the chill hours of the early morning before sunrise to an hour or so before noon, by which time Mr. Han has them stop and pitch up lean-to's for shade. They have a two to four hour break in that shade, eating lunch and resting, and even when the worst of the heat has passed they resume riding until it gets too dark to keep going.

"It is a habit of Xerxes, the midday rest," Mr. Han explains to them, during one of their noon breaks. "Too hot to work, not worth the energy and the water you lose, they say. Better to nap and replenish."

"What a sensible way to go about things," Roy sighs, fanning himself with his journal. "If I ever get the chance, I'll constitute similar rules in Amestris."

"You have ambitions of rulership, then?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

Aside from that, travel is mostly dull and monotonous. They talk, some, Mr. Han telling them of his home land, Pinako telling them about her youth, the soldiers offering anecdotes here and there, where appropriate. Mostly it's Breda and Hawkeye, talking about their training in the Military Academy.

"What about you?" Pinako asks Roy. "What shenanigans did you get up to?"

"Ah, I didn't go to the academy," Roy admits, offering her a smile. "State Alchemist – I was given the rank of Major when I passed the examination."

"And got sent straight to the east?"

Roy chuckles, mirthless. "Not immediately, but… soon enough."

"They just gave you a rank?" Winry asks. "Without even any training? Isn't that a little unfair?"

"Lieutenant Colonel more than earned his rank," Hawkeye says with a slightest frown. "Then and now. Not many State Alchemists rise above the rank of Major – the Lieutenant Colonel did it in record time."

"Ah," Roy says, both pleased and a little embarrassed. "I did my best. But you're right, Winry, it might seem a little unfair – but State Alchemists usually aren't soldiers, we're scientists and researchers. The rank is mostly just for show – and for pay. The military's way of acknowledging the level of training and education that goes to bring an Alchemist in the first place."

Winry frowns thoughtfully. "How long does it take to learn to become an Alchemist?"

"From years to decades – usually the latter," Roy says and chuckles. "I'd been training for more than eight years when I took the State Alchemist exam."

"Passing the exam is considered equivalent to university education," Hawkeye explains.

"Huh," Winry hums.

"I didn't know that," Pinako muses. "But I suppose not many outside the right circles do. Guess that explains why it's such a big deal."

"Wonder what automail mechanic training equates to," Winry wonders and then casts them a glare. "Not that I'd ever want to join! I'm just wondering."

They laugh and then spend the rest of the ride until evening wondering about the equivalencies of various education's – Roy privately wondering what education in Xerxes might be like.

And so the days pass, thankfully any incidents at all and on the evening of the third day, they reach Atossa.

Notes:

Well here we go again. I'm having some Nostalgic Feels here.