How I Saved History (Fate/Grand Order SI)

"So." I begin, staring at the caved-in wreckage of the British Museum. "That was the main entrance to the Clocktower."

Jekyll winces, staring at the piled of shattered masonry. "Yes."

"Well, shit. I hope that at least some of the relics survived. That museum has a lot of cultural treasures stowed away."

"And of course you're upset about the artifacts, and not the people." Galahad grouses from besides me.

"Well, obviously, I'm hoping that the museum staff survived and got out, but this all looks to have happened at least a week ago, so I'm not holding out hope."

"And the Clocktower?" Galahad inquires, raising an eyebrow. We start off towards the area Jekyll identified as the Association's back entrance.

"Galahad, there are three things in this world that I unequivocally hate: Luddites, aristocrats, and Nazis. Well, actually, now that I think about it, I also hate people who are insufferably smug about their religious beliefs, whatever they may be, squirrels, Nero, and whoever's behind the Incineration, so maybe that's a bit too reductionist."

"Get to the point, Flynn."

"My point is that the Mage's Association, from what I've seen of it so far, seems to be run by aristocratic, holier-than-thou Luddites, and I'm not really going to mourn the loss of people that occupy at least two circle of my Venn Diagram of Hate."

He looks at me, as do the others. "You have issues, Flynn."

"Trust the Venn Diagram of Hate, Galahad, it has rarely steered me wrong."

"Okay, seriously, what did the Association do to you to make you hate them so much?" Galahad asks incredulously. Frankenstein seems amused, while Jekyll looks mildly horrified. The others seem to be tuning out the conversation.

"The first magus I ever met spent his entire explanation of the Moonlit World reminding me I was filthy first-generation hedge mage trash, and at one point described how he was planning to mark my family down as potential test subjects. He also made fun of me because my last name's Irish." I recount. "Needless to say, he didn't leave the best impression. Although he actually didn't threaten to dissect my family until I started breaking out the Harry Potter comparisons." Probably going to have to kill that guy once we've un-Incinerated everybody.

Actually, now that I think about it, I can't think of a single way I could kill him off without my Servants. I talk a big game, but how the Hell do I defend myself once my time at Chaldea is done?

All right. Best to take advantage of my current opportunities and prepare myself as best I can for life (and assassinations) after Chaldea. Maybe I can get Medea to teach me poisons? Something for later, I suppose.

"I... suppose that's good a reason as any." Galahad concedes. "I'm sorry that you had to meet someone like that, Flynn."

"It's fine," I assure him, grinning. "I'm just currently riding high on the schadenfreude of the high and mighty Mages' Association, with all their carefully hoarded and safeguarded Mysteries, and their generations of arrogance and unethical experimentation, getting taken out like punks the minute the Singularity started."

"It is rather amusing," Frankenstein notes. "Although I would wager that this was some manner of inside job. Whoever did this knew where they were, and knew how to take down their defenses. I'd have to guess that the culprit was one of them."

"Fair enough. I don't really know any magi, though, so I don't think that narrows it down in the slightest."

"True. They are rather secretive."

We arrive at the back entrance, which is equally rubble-strewn and caved in.

"It would appear that we'll have to dig up the entrance," Frankenstein observes, grabbing a particularly sizable chunk of rubble and tossing it aside.

It's swiftly finished, and then we make our way into the ruined, corpse-strewn Association, fending off magic floating books as we go.

I have to agree with Shakespeare and Anderson, to be honest. Destroying these things is weirdly cathartic.

---​

"So. We need to read through an entire library to find what we need to?" I summarize, looking at the vault of records.

"Yes. Hopefully Anderson finishes soon." Galahad replies. "For now, though, we need to focus on defending the vault."

"Neat. I will be able to do absolutely jack shit out here, so I'm gonna go join Anderson." I announce, ducking into the records vault to join the pint-sized author, Galahad's cry of 'Flynn you coward!' barely audible through the vault's door.

"Flynn. I didn't expect you to be joining me." Anderson notes, his deep baritone voice bringing back memories of my middle-school principal.

"I won't be of much use out there." I comment. "I figured that I'd be better suited to helping you research."

"Fair enough." Anderson notes with a grin. "Take the leftmost stacks. And be sure to take notes."

"You'll need to loan me some paper and writing utensils, but sure. I'm game." I pause. "What precisely are we looking for?"

"The nature of the Servant Summoning System, and their notes on the Demonic Fog."

"Well, let's get to it, then."

---​

"Holy shit."

"What did you find?" Anderson asks, peering over.

"They tried to assassinate Thomas Edison!"

"Seriously? No way." he looks it over. "Holy crow. How'd they screw it up?"

We'd noticed the pattern pretty quickly, browsing through the Association's records. Whenever some new technological pioneer appeared, at least one of the Association's departments would set up an assassination attempt, which inevitably failed, sometimes through the intervention of a specific hero, and other times through seemingly random chance and bad luck.

"Says here that some local rich man's automobile, one of the old steam-powered ones, broke down and careened into the team of assassins, killing them almost instantly." I look through the failure report. "Supposedly, the cause of failure was a golden ring that somehow ended up jamming the steering apparatus, with nobody knowing how it got there. The Animusphere family took it in to study it for anomalous properties."

"They find anything?"

"It doesn't say. They went on to build Chaldea, though, so I might be able to access their records."

The vault door slams open, and a sweaty, highly irritated Galahad storms in. "How long are you two going to take!?"

After I'm done jumping halfway out of my skin, I offer my temperamental protector a grin and a friendly wave. "Hey Galahad! How's that defensive line holding up?"

He looks at me in irritated disbelief before throwing his hands up and snarling, "It's going just great. Because we finished off the last of the enemies in this godforsaken ruin an hour ago. How long can it be taking you to find what we need?"

"Oh, we found that about thirty minutes in." I report. "We just figured, since we probably wouldn't ever get an opportunity like this again, we should take the chance to read some of the Association's restricted documents for a little while."

I actually talked Anderson into it. The potential for learning was too tantalizing to pass up.

Galahad shudders, his jaw clenching something fierce. "So, you mean to say that I just battled those books nonstop for four hours so you could catch up on your reading?"

"Four hours?" I parrot in confusion, looking at Anderson, who looks equally baffled. "I didn't realize it was that long."

Galahad starts and stops a few times, before finally letting out an irritated groan. "I cannot deal with you right now. We're going home."

"But Galahad-" I whine.

"None of that!" he bellows.

"Very well, then. Leave me with a few Servants, and I'll continue my survey of the records," Anderson interjects.

"You're coming back with us too."

"But Galahad-"

"No buts! You're heading back with us, and that's final." Galahad snaps. "Oh, and Mordred might be joining us."

"Why?"

"Jekyll turned into that Hyde fellow you mentioned, and while he was so influenced, was quite... explicit regarding his desires." Galahad recounts, looking disgusted. "Mordred seemed rather disquieted by the matter, and may wish some distance."

"Ah." I kind of already thought they were a thing, to be honest. Guess not, though. "He's welcome to stay at the complex, if he so desires."

Galahad smiles. "Thanks, Flynn. Now let's get going."

 

'Caesar? Any problems while we were gone?' I send. The others in the group all seem a bit put out with me. Frankenstein and Shakespeare for not inviting me with them, and the rest for making them fight a nonstop battle for four hours straight. Although, Galahad is really the only one of the Servants who's outspoken about his irritation with us on that particular count. Asterios seems content, Cursed Arm is professional as ever, and Georgios seems more amused than anything. Mordred, for his part, has looked like he's in shock ever since we regrouped and left the Association. I guess whatever Hyde said really threw him off his game. Jekyll, for his part, just looks guilty and crestfallen, staring morosely at the ground and occasionally looking Mordred's way.

' We seem to be under siege, Master.' Gaul's Conqueror replies. 'An army of Helter Skelters has set up shop on our doorstep.'

Well, shit. 'Everything under control?'

' Indeed. They have proven incapable of breaching Paracelsus' defenses, and those few who manage to get into the bounded field are swiftly eliminated by the proto-homunculi.' Caesar replies. 'However, their numbers continue to increase. I fear that, even if they cannot enter, they will ensure that we cannot leave.'

'Oh.' I mull it over for a moment. It looks like they're planning on pinning us down, and like Babbage, who, if Frankenstein is right, created the Helter Skelters, can bring them under centralized control. 'We're still outside the building, in the streets of London. Would you say that the Helter-Skelters are behaving like an army? Following orders and using strategies?'

'Yes. Without a doubt.'

'Can you hear orders, or see a specific commander?'

'No. Although the fog isn't exactly boosting our visual range.'

'They're machines, which means that they can most likely be remote controlled.' I theorize, already running through things in my head. 'We're going to hunt down their controller. Stop them in their tracks.'

'Be cautious, Master. If there is indeed a single controller, then you must bear in mind that he could simply recall his entire army. You lack our defenses, and can be easily overwhelmed.'

'I'll be careful.' I promise him. 'Flynn out.'

"Alright everybody. Slight change of plans." I call out. The others look at me expectantly. "The complex is under attack by an army of Helter-Skelters and automata. They can easily hold out, but if Babbage keeps it up, he can just trap us inside the complex with his endless numbers. Which means-"

"We need to track down and dispose of Charles Babbage." Frankenstein finishes, a borderline feral grin on his face. "Count me in, Flynn."

Jekyll sighs. "How do we aim to do this? I do regret having to come into conflict with such a great scientist, but, if it's necessary to save London, I'll help."

"Yeah." Mordred grunts. "I'm in, too. I really need to just hit something right about now."

I look at the others. "That go for everyone?"

Nods all around.

"Splendid. Frankenstein, I'll need your help in tracking down the signal."

"That's not possible at the moment. I'd need my lab equipment, and, considering Babbage's current state as a Servant, I highly doubt that the signal is in any way technological in origin. Steam power can't be used to make radios, and he'd rather use actual magic than ever pollute his precious creations with any lesser technology."

"Right. I'll contact Caster, then." I say, before turning my attention to Paracelsus. 'Caster? Are you available at the moment?'

'Yes, my Master. We are under attack, though, so I'd ask that you make this quick.'

'I need you to help us track down the signal controlling the Helter Skelters.'

'Very well. I'll get on that.'

About half an hour later, he gives me Babbage's approximate location.

'How'd you get it?' I ask, somewhat impressed.

'I incapacitated and captured two Helter Skelters, stuck them on opposite ends of the complex, and then measured where they were getting their control signal from. From their, it was a simple matter of triangulating the enemy's position.'

'Solid work. Warn us if his position changes.' "All right, crew, let's move out!"

---​

We find him on a roof, just close enough to watch the siege. His massive back is turned to us as he stares out over the fog.

"So. You have come." the titanic figure calls in greeting. He's huge, looking like a Helter Skelter that let itself go. "I expected you would."

"Babbage?" Frankenstein asks incredulously, walking out ahead of us. "Charles Babbage? What the hell happened to you?"

"Theodore Frankenstein. You're still alive. A pity."

"Yes, yes, hate you too," Frankenstein replies dismissively. "NOW WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"

"Is it the armor?" Babbage asks.

"Yes it's the bloody armor, you damn fool! How'd you get it?"

"This is the crystallization of my dream. The world I sought to create, and devoted my every waking moment to! The DIMENSION OF STEAM! Within it, I rest, forever isolated from the world, in the world I sought to create, within my one true passion." Babbage declares, his armor beginning to creak to life, ready for combat.

"Bullshit." Frankenstein snaps, and suddenly, the tension of the incipient clash is lost.

"What?" Babbage roars, steam venting from his armor. "You dare question my devotion? Steam was my one true passion!"

"No. It wasn't." Frankenstein replies, his voice carrying a tinge of regret. "And I'm beginning to doubt that you're Charles Babbage."

"I-what?"

"Do you remember your wife?"

"Well-" he stops, suddenly looking utterly lost. "I- had a wife. Why would I- I had a wife, though. Why would I have a wife, my passion was steam, and machines, and-"

"A question, Flynn. What makes a Heroic Spirit qualify as a Heroic Spirit?"

I start, having fallen into the comfortable role of the spectator, before answering, thinking back to some of Da Vinci's lectures on the system's workings. "There are five types of Heroic Spirit, each defined by how they qualified for the Throne: Heavens, those of divine origin, Earth, for various folk heros and mythological figures, Man, for those entirely from human history, Star, for those who surpassed all expectation and became the pinnacle of human ability, and Beast, for those that became the pinnacle of human vice and failure."

"And the spirits of Man, specifically? What is their defining characteristic?"

"They're elevated and often reshaped because they usually qualify only through human... memory..." I trail off, feeling my gut sink as I look at Babbage with new eyes.

"Where are you going with this, Ted?" Babbage snaps, great metal hands tightening at his sides.

"Tell me, Flynn, what do people think of, when they think of Charles Babbage in your time?" Frankenstein asks me, his tone grim.

"They think of..." I start to say "steampunk" but then reconsider, redefining it into terms that they could understand, even as I realize, with a deep and profound sense of horror, what happened to this man. "They think of this era's technology. They think of what might have been if he had finished his Analysis Engine, and the world that might have resulted from it."

"And do they think of his wife? His children? His work in economics, natural theology, and even cryptography?" Frankenstein asks relentlessly, his eyes narrowing. "Do they think of his countless campaigns to ban street music and the rolling of hoops?"

"No. Only the steam." I recount numbly.

"And there you have it." Frankenstein notes dispassionately, staring straight at Babbage. "You, more accurately, your incarnation as a Heroic Spirit, is not Charles Babbage. You are a cheap caricature formed by the petty diversions of later generations, stripped of any defining characteristic that wasn't steam-related." He shakes his head in disappointment.

"That's..." the armored titan trails off, denial within every line of his frame. "But... I'm me."

"Do you remember the remark I made which led to our duel?" Frankenstein asks. "The one back on New Year's Day, 1828?"

"You said that steam power would die out!" Babbage snaps angrily, his armor firing up again.

"That's not what I said." Frankenstein interrupts, stopping Babbage in his tracks. "What I said was, 'Your father, your wife, and your son, all in the same year. Maybe your ridiculous insistence on steam will follow them into the graveyard, where it belongs.' You tried to kill me on the spot. I won, of course." He pauses. "I never actually apologized for that remark, did I? I suppose I should now. I'm sorry, that was terribly gauche of me. Entirely disgraceful."

"That... I don't remember that part." Babbage whispers, his glowing red eye dilated.

"Because you don't remember them. You don't remember anything that isn't related to your ridiculously exaggerated fixation on a long-outdated power source." Frankenstein continues brusquely. "And now, here you stand, destroying the city you so loved, including your still-living son's and daughters. Benjamin died in '78, but as far as I know, Georgiana, Dugald, and Henry are all still alive. And you aim to kill them. I knew Charles Babbage. And you. Are not. Him."

"I-" Babbage looks down at his armored hands, as if looking at a stranger's. "No. I never wanted to destroy human history. I didn't want to do this!" Suddenly, his armor lights up, and he begins to move, as if against his will. "He's trying to make me fight!" He lunges forwards, and Frankenstein meets him halfway, stopping him in his tracks with a straight to the gut. "Beneath London! Angrboda! Beneath London!" He roars, and then falls completely silent, not uttering a single sound as he and Frankenstein begin to duel in earnest.

Not a Servant moves to intervene in the clash between the titans of steam and thunder, content to watch and wait as metal fists fly, matched by corded muscle. From the start, it's clear: Frankenstein is winning. He dodges jets of burning steam, his fists raised in a boxer's guard as he bobs and weaves between Babbage's blows, easily sidestepping Babbage's jet-assisted forward charge, sinking a fist crackling with lightning into the armored inventor's side as he passes.

His style is methodical, calculating, polished skill mated with inhuman strength and speed, every blow from his foeman deflected, dodged, or blocked. He doesn't draw his axe for the entirety of their exchange, using only his bare hands, which burn with the crackling electricity wreathing his whole body, to systemically dismantle Babbage, until the King of Steam kneels on broken legs, his arms dangling by threads and his body looking like a crumpled tin can. Then, and only then, does he pull his twisted iron axe free from its sling.

"You know, if I'd had a choice, I wouldn't have wanted to end things like this."

The axe falls, and the inventor dies.

"Thanks for letting me finish that on my own, Flynn." he calls.

I nod in acknowledgement. "I figured you had that covered."

"You heard what he said, right?"

"Angrboda. Beneath London. Then he stopped saying anything, which I take to mean that whoever forced him to fight us also took the opportunity to muzzle him."

"So. That's where we're going." Frankenstein announces, sliding his axe back into the sling on his back.

"All right then, gang!" I call, causing everybody to look my way. "We're heading to the London Underground!"

 

The mist is thicker in the Underground, as we quickly find out. The entrance we enter through looks almost like a smokestack, the acrid, sickly fog pouring out in an unending stream, casting no doubts that this was the source of the fog.

"And to think I actually considered just trying to take the Tube when we were lost earlier." I note with a snort. "Singularity would've been over real fast if I had."

"It'd make for a poor story, though," Anderson notes.

"Bah! I have no doubt perils and wonders aplenty await us below!" Shakespeare counters. "It will be a glorious tale all the same."

"Less talking, more walking, people." I command, as we file into the dark and fog-enshrouded confines. "We don't want to give away our position."

---​

Apparitions, strange beings of fog instead of flesh, attack us from time to time as we make our way through the empty stations and abandoned tunnels. We fend them off easily as we make our way ever lower, and the fog grows ever thicker. Soon, visibility is reduced to the point where we can't see more than a few yards away, and we have to bunch up just to avoid losing anybody. As we descend, a distant roar becomes audible, one that only grows in intensity as we march ever nearer to the Fog's creator.

At last, however, we reach the end of the newer, obviously freshly made tunnels, and found ourselves staring directly into a metal pipe, its aperture only a few feet away from the tunnel we finished walking through. The Demonic Fog gushes out of it, and the cacophony of sound we've been pursuing reaches a near-deafening crescendo.

We squeeze out through the gap between pipe and tunnel, and find ourselves in steampunk Hell.

The cavern is vast, its vaulted ceiling stretching at least fifty feet up, and its diameter stretching out about a thousand yards. The mist is thin here, and the reason is clear to see: Here lies the contraption that birthed it.

It covers the cavern, a roaring, clanking monstrosity that sprawls indolently within its domain, an endless sea of gears and boilers, pistons and pipes, all writhing in a symphony of chaotic harmony, each arranged in accordance with the beast's own inscrutable order. The cavern is lit by it, by the searing, muggy light of its furnaces, and the golden gleam of its heart, casting the cave into dimly lit shadows, in which it seems all the more sinisterly. It almost seems to live, this writhing monster of gears, and the roar of the pistons intensifies until I can hear nothing but its cries, the unholy ensemble surging to new life, in a frenzied orgy of activity, every belt and conveyer doubling its speed as if to spite me. Seven outflow pipes rise up from the indentation it rests in, each leading to a separate tunnel, and from them spew the vile, sickly fog that has dogged our steps throughout London.

I feel baleful eyes upon me, although I can see no watcher.

"GALAHAD, CAN YOU FEEL THAT?" I shout.

He says something, but for the life of me, I can't hear it. I can't hear anything that isn't the roar of the industrial behemoth laid out before me.

Then, I remember the mental link, and repeat the question.

'I think we found our culprit.' he reports, pointing at something. I follow his finger, and see a man in an Ulster overcoat, with sharply angled features and purple hair, and sad, melancholy eyes. He says something as I look at him.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

He sighs (I think) and mutters something. Suddenly, the sound of the great machine vanishes, and I can actually hear again.

"Thank you." I say, because it never hurts to be polite. "Now then. Professor Moriarty, I assume?"

"London must fall, by the order of-" he blinks. "Wait, what?"

"Professor Moriarty? I kind of assumed, because, you know, 'M.' But you're not Moriarty, are you?"

"No."

"Mycroft Holmes, then!" Galahad interjects, looking slightly cheerful at the chance to name the culprit.

"Zolgen Makiri!" the purple-haired man snaps, looking profoundly irritated. "I'm Zolgen Makiri!"

That name.. actually sounds slightly familiar. Where did I hear it before?

"Now, your efforts have proven fruitless. London shall be razed, by the order of-"

"Now I know where I heard your name before!" I interrupt as I remember the precise section of the Clocktower's records in which it featured. "You're that guy who blew the Cryptozoology Department's entire budget on trying to classify giant pandas as a Phantasmal Species back in 1772!"

He looks mildly irritated. "That was my grandfather, actually. And he also made numerous discoveries, including the proper classification of the Loch Ness Monster, the establishment of the Association's first unicorn preserve, and the identification and preservation of North America's indigenous Sasquatch population before his dismissal."

"And not a single soul outside your little country club for inbred Luddites actually cares about a single word of that."

He makes a noise like an angry teakettle. "And you call yourself a magus?"

"I don't, actually. I prefer to devote my time to things like having a life that doesn't revolve around doing the exact same thing my every ancestor has done since the dawn of time, but slightly worse, and waiting for the latest bullshit from Apple to render my entire family's legacy obsolete."

"I- YOU-"

He's so incandescently furious that he didn't notice Cursed Arm vanish. He does actually notice, however, when Cursed Arm reappears, and, in one smooth, practiced motion, slits his throat and then drives the bloodstained dagger into his heart, before stabbing him a few more times just to be safe.

"Right, he dead?" I call out, then wince as the noise resurges. I repeat the question over the mental link, and get a definitive 'Yes.'

'Alright team, solid work. That's the last member of Project Demonic Fog dead, now all we have to do is-'

The roar redoubles.

The beast of steam, this Angrboda, has into even more fervent activity. As I watch, the outflow pipes burst, and the Demonic Fog begins to flood the room, so unspeakably dense that it almost feels like I'm underwater.

And then, something happens. The fog begins to contract, drawn in by some unseen reaction, compressing into a single, towering figure.

And then a wave of crackling, irresistible force explodes outwards, knocking us all off our feet.

It is then, and only then, that I see him. Tall and proud, with the thunder as his raiment. He stands above the great engine, Angrboda, the mist halting in its increase, its power spent for the moment from the strain of bringing forth this modern titan.

And then he speaks. "Know, you mortals, that I am among you. I AM TESLA! WHO TAMED THE HEAVENS AND BOUND THE THUNDER! BY MY MIND THIS WORLD OF TODAY WAS FORGED, AND BY MY HANDS IT SHALL BE UNMADE!"

He advances, his every footfall an inexorable harbinger of doom, and I can't move a muscle to stop him. My hair's still on end, and even the Servants look paralyzed by the blast we just endured.

"Charlie? Can you hear me?" Roman asks, his holographic image finally appearing. "Sorry we haven't been in contact. The Fog kept jamming our signal. Listen, you can't let Tesla reach the surface. If he does, he'll ignite the fog, and destroy London in one fell swoop."

"Gablawa," I gibber urbanely, my jaw nearly biting my tongue off thanks to a poorly timed muscle spasm.

"Oh right. Electrocuted." he sighs. "We're boned, aren't we?"

"Not precisely." A deep voice calls out, and I manage to turn my head to look.

Frankenstein is still standing, his axe slung over one shoulder, grinning. "Galahad. Get Flynn out of here, along with the others. Reach the surface, and ready your defenses, prepare to stop him in his tracks. I'll hold him here."

Tesla stops in his march, turning to face the man-made man. "A bold vow. And one doomed to be broken. Only a demigod born of the Age of Heroes, with a mastery of electricity to match my own could ever stand a chance against me!"

"Thbought you... hated us." I manage to get out, as Galahad hoists me up, walking on unsteady legs himself.

"I do. I despise humanity. But you never judged me for what I looked like. You never lashed out, or dismissed me as a monster just because of how I was made." he grins. "If the future has people like you and Mary in it, then I suppose it might be worth fighting for." And then he turns and walks towards Tesla, the lightning rising about him.

"Who are you, to stand against me?" Tesla asks, cocking his head to one side with a look of honest confusion on his face.

"The folly and triumph of man in one." the hulking man growls, as Tesla starts to look annoyed. "You call yourself the Tamer of Thunder? Well I am the Thunder. I am the fire and fury of the gods made flesh, and I-"

Tesla hauls back and punches him into a wall mid-sentence, before shaking his head in irritation. "I was asking your name, idiot, not inviting you to launch into a speech about how awesome you are. Christ." He turns back to the rest of our group, looking annoyed. "Hmph. Well, guess I'll have to finish you lot off as well." He raises a hand crackling with electricity, and is interrupted by Frankenstein tackling him from behind, the two of them slamming into the cavern's wall and leaving a crater behind them as they roll away, grappling on the floor.

And that's the last I see of them, as Galahad helps me away into the tunnel, and away from the clashing titans of thunder.

Our ascent is near-silent, a desperate sprint through the cramped tunnels until we reach the surface, gasping and short on breath.

Once we've made it, though, and caught our breaths, Galahad turns to me.

"Do you have an idea on how we can kill him?"

I pause, thinking it over for a second, reviewing what assets I have available.

And then I grin.

"Yes."