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Edgar Valden found many human relations to be life’s most frivolous.
In the grand scheme of things, they seemingly had no purpose and would cause more trouble than necessary. Guilt, melancholy, grief… All were something Edgar perceived through life’s experiences. He painted them, would try to sympathize, but truly, Edgar found that these emotions, outside of his grand pursuit for the true meaning of art, were null. He watched Maple fall in love, he watched people go through the stages of life like an eldritch god, almost unaware of his own aging. He was no god— not benevolent nor omniscient— he was just a boy far too caught up in his own dreams.
Art was Edgar’s raison d’être; the only reason he woke up each day to resume yesterday’s progress was towards an ultimate goal. Art was eternal, as displayed through history. Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Monet, Michelangelo… Their pieces were hung in museums, fawned over by millions throughout the years. There was an unhealthy curiosity to Edgar, and his journey for this had become more than a hobby, more than an interest— it was an obsession, maybe even a lifestyle.
So when young women would congratulate him at the several annual Valden parties, he knew. They had no stance on it, either way, so even if he would receive some sort of criticism by an old man, he’d scoff. There was no true worthiness in his words, as they were simply letters scrambled together into voids of sentences. His art was not kitsch, it was far more important than the ironic feebleness that people nowadays carried.
They went through the motions, while Edgar stood with his spine straight, chin up, and a brush upon the canvas. He lived life with meaning, while they would apply masks each day, dictating their emotions with fraud.
It was a late October evening when he changed.
The only son of the Valden family was one to bestow. He carried himself with indubious prestige, meaning he was also highly sought after in a world where money meant everything. Women with fluttering dresses like butterflies and smiles made of plastic; men with forced courtesy who behaved like they held the world within their grotesquely sweaty hands. They acted childishly, no matter how many wrinkles etched themselves upon their faces.
It was, and always will be, disgusting.
Edgar would never put on a façade, displaying his distaste in full volume for everybody to see. He entertained his time with his own thoughts, taking notice of the room which he spent not nearly enough time in. There was a reason for it though. Architects fancy themselves the paragon of aesthetics, attempting to hide the fact that they are searching for money as everybody else is.
There was only frivolousness followed by decay. Perhaps this was the circle of life, the folly of man, the criminally foolish actions of those around him, caught up in delusion labeled as fantasy. They slow-danced through life, would waste their lives away, almost entirely unaware they were doing so.
The party was in full swing, every person seemingly relishing themselves in the atmosphere.
All except one.
A vacuous expression had painted itself onto Edgar’s features, appearing almost blankly inscrutable. He was an enigma to those who attended, yet the crowd he seemed to attract paralleled everything he seemed to exhibit. It was uncanny.
The environment was the only factor keeping Edgar from parting ways with the crowds. He had danced with superficial women, who only cared for fame and fortune, surrounding themselves with money and accessories without aesthetics. He wished such days could stay away, yet they always came and they went. He wished such people could stay away, but that was out of his control. Life, death, the pursuit of happiness, among other things… It all was out of grasp, far too distant for Edgar. For anybody.
His hands grasped at the cuffs on his blouse, eyes perusing the colors of the banquet. Golds glimmering, glazing, gleaming upon his pupils, reflecting in the verdigris of his eyes. He had been told they were nice, but Edgar found the compliment senseless, as he had no control over the color of his eyes. Still, knowing they weren’t putrid was somewhat of a relief—but he didn’t need other people telling him that. Especially the woman who was speaking his ear off.
It was a late October evening when Edgar Valden spoke to a young woman. Her name had already left him, but she hadn’t received any sanction for his presence, nor for his ears. She had a frail form, bright eyes full of envy and deception. She spoke with a forked tongue, all her words dripping with sarcasm and falsehood.
She was in the middle of a phrase (perhaps; to be truthful, Edgar hadn’t listened to a word she had said thus far) when Edgar stopped moving, finally facing her. She had green eyes, mixed with splashes of aquamarine and hazel. He didn’t spend much time looking at her.
“I advise you to keep your space from now on.” He spits out, eyes narrowing slightly. His vision was briefly shadowed by fluttering eyelashes before Edgar turned on his heel. The sound of people was suffocating, and all he wanted to do was take in the scenery as a ghost. A specter who simply lingered, taking photographs in his mind of colors, of dynamicity.
The weather was crisp as Edgar escaped from the confines of the banquet, sweat appearing on his temples. He was a moth to light, where Edgar seemed to immediately be at ease once the French doors behind him closed. It was a brisk night, the courtyard empty of a single soul except himself.
He inhaled quietly, the world coming to a pause. It was lethargic, soothing, perhaps it was peaceful. The faint sound of muffled music was white noise, the sound of singing insects mixed with it. It was quiet.
A stroll was pleasant enough, as it would be a perfect way to clear his mind, to take it off the hell that was inside of his own home. So Edgar began to step along the cobblestone, heels reverberating against them in small clicks. It was more of a shuffle, to be frank, as his eyelids grew heavy with the adrenaline of the night wearing off into mere memories.
There was a split second where Edgar felt as if he could’ve collapsed then and there. What caused him to stand up straighter, however, was the rustling of fabric, shifting against each other. He nearly thought it was two people, perhaps young lovers who snuck off. His face scrunched in distaste, immediately turning with his eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched.
The man who was sitting on the steps would have leaped several yards in the air if not for gravity. His eyes were as wide as saucers, fear plaguing his face. Once Edgar’s tension ceased, however, the man in front of him followed in suit, exhaling shakily. Edgar’s arm fell to his side, where the other one rested.
“Scared me!” The man chuckled lightly, his smile as bright as a thousand suns, a small dog-like fang appearing once he opened his mouth. His hair was tied back messily into a small ponytail, strands of nutmeg hair peeking out radically. His eyes were dark, yet they held the inspiration and power of years lived long ago, of knowledge and of hope. He dressed nicely—though Edgar didn’t have much say on fashion, as it wasn’t his field of expertise— his collar somewhat off-center and clad a formal brown three-piece. “I thought you were Lawrence!”
Edgar wanted to paint him.
“Don’t tell anybody I’m here,” He began, setting down some odd-looking metal contraption to his side. “My master will be terribly cross if he finds out I’m outside, though to be completely honest, I doubt he’s noticed. He’s here to discuss business, or find other people who are interested in whatever he’s interested in. Or, what we’re interested in, to be concise—“ His hand reached up to scratch the back of his head, the ponytail bobbing in the process.”—as I’m his subordinate-slash-assistant.”
Edgar had never been disposed to the idea of blabbermouths, and it was more than obvious that the man who sat in front of him was one of them. His own expression was blank of any emotions, staring into one that held so much destiny and desire to experience life to its fullest.
“What are you doing?” Edgar asked comically. At least, it was comical to the man sitting on the stairs, who let out a light giggle that could have been mistaken for an exhale. His eyes gradually gravitated to the machinery next to him, seemingly shimmering in the light. The shadowing and shading on it was almost captivating, though the device itself was…
Grotesque.
It was messy and full of too many parts that acted together independently yet for a larger cause instead of working towards that cause in unison. It was disgusting and revolting and unpalatable for the eye. Edgar could barely even look at it for long, as it caused such an unsettling feeling inside his gut at just the sight of it-
“You’re the Valden son, right?” The man spoke up, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. The corners of his lips tugged up into a grin. Judging by his expression, it’s very obvious that he didn’t expect somebody like Edgar to show up. On the other hand, Edgar didn’t expect anybody to show up. So perhaps they were even.
“I am,” Edgar spoke firmly, standing up even taller as he stared down at the man, clearly interrupting his train of thought.
The man nodded, thankfully, not commenting much further while continuing to finger his contraption. “It must be odd.” He replied, and before Edgar could counter back with a snotty line, he continued. “Not in a bad way, of course, but you don’t seem too tied up in all these high-end parties and such. Guess we’re in the same boat, in some sense.”
Without questioning the latter of his sentence, Edgar pointed at the machine again, this time more forcefully. “What is that?”
“This?” He held up the machinery. It was box-shaped, though some wires and odd-looking tubes made it look otherwise. There was a small lightbulb at the top, connected to a myriad of other wires, some black, some red, some blue. It was like staring into the man’s mind. A messy, unreadable mess. “It’s not anything terribly enormous, just something I’ve done with my spare time. My master and I are working on something bigger, but I felt I wouldn’t be able to survive this banquet if I didn’t have something to do. It’s a piece of communication-based machinery to connect two circuitries. Like a telephone, but rather than connecting people, it can work two things at once from a single database.
“It's reverence-inducing, is it not? Each part works in harmony, a gorgeous microcosm of machinery, with each individual piece servile to the idealistic result of it all. Of course, at a first glance, it might seem ubiquitous to somebody who isn’t me. Even my master finds it to be capricious and visceral!” The man stood up, continuing to assault Edgar with word after word, now moving in circles, as if he were dancing with that hunk of metal. “It may not be appealing visually, but it has prominence inside, don’t you agree?”
Edgar tried to listen, but each word seemed to go inside one ear and out the other.
“I’m not sure.” Edgar said.
The man nodded. He’s far too understanding, Edgar thought, a trust that will lead to his downfall.
“That’s all right.” The shaggy-brown-hair man replied. “It is hard to understand. Much like I wouldn’t understand art, it’s quite all right if you don’t fully understand my ramblings.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You don’t?”
“I suppose not.”
Truthfully, this was more than bizarre. The shift between having the butterfly-like woman earlier rambling about whatever, and Edgar nearly pushing her over in frustration to… this. This specimen of a man caught his attention like he was stuck in a lasso, and it was clear he had no intentions of letting go.
—
They spoke for what felt like hours, though perhaps it wasn’t even a full one. His name was Luca, though Edgar saw it sufficient to just call him “Balsa”, as he had called Edgar just “Valden”. They sat on those stairs, Balsa’s legs outstretched and his hands adjusting the wires, whilst Edgar crossed his ankles, hands in his lap as he watched. Communication was something that Edgar found himself lenient with, because it was crucial in life, but not entirely necessary at every moment. He didn’t have to talk while he painted, but Edgar would take notes, subconscious pictures, of the man’s actions. His movements were akin to a noodle, though one with poise and intelligence.
That’s another thing: Balsa was incredibly intelligent. He used words Edgar didn’t know the meanings to but would nod along anyways, the former spitting out facts as if he was a walking, talking book full of ideas and full of dreams. He lived in the moment, and for that time they were together, he seemed to pull Edgar down to Earth with him.
That was until Maple came, clearly distressed, his name fresh on her lips.
Balsa sat up straight, a smile gracing his features. (Edgar found his fang to be especially interesting, even asking about it, to which Balsa replied that “it’s just genetic” and then teased him by asking if “he liked what he saw”. Edgar nodded, replying that he found it to be incredibly fascinating).
“Edgar, father would like you to come to say goodbye to some guests.” She spoke softly, though clearly with sobriety. “I apologize if I interrupted. I didn’t quite expect Edgar to be with anybody!”
Luca waved his hands, rising to his feet. He towered over Maple, Edgar quickly noticed, despite his lanky stature. “It’s no problem. Valden was just listening to me,” A complete lie, Edgar realized after, as his face felt sore from a smile that rarely tugged at his lips. He didn’t realize how much he had said to a stranger like Balsa. “I’d better be going anyways. My master is likely looking for me. Pleasure meeting you!”
And he was gone.
Balsa’s figure diminished into the moonlight, his steps bouncing with the ecstasy of having somebody listen, perhaps even having somebody try to understand.
Maple’s voice was faint as Edgar rose to his feet, trudging back to the banquet with his mind racing. He wondered where Balsa was going, what he was doing, where he was from, and where he would go.
He wondered if Luca would remember him if perhaps one day they crossed paths again, perhaps if they met in another life. He wondered if that same smile would once again grace his features, and if he would laugh again at a brute comment Edgar would make. If he would lean back, a machine in his hands, and would fidget, small sparks of light peeking out from time to time, shocking him. But Luca would just laugh it off, with that same reckless smile.
—
It took three years.
—
Oletus Manor stood so proudly in such a desolate area. Tall towers loomed, windows darkened with a black tint, it almost seemed as if it was abandoned, save for the candles that were lit, and the plants taken care of nicely in the front, past the threatening gates. It appeared like something described in books, like something only a few could experience. Fortunately (or unfortunately) Edgar Valden would be one in the minority.
The lamp on the left side of the gate was broken, Edgar noted before he pushed it open.
His hands still ached, bandages wrapped around them to hide the wounds in which he had made himself. Crimson peeked through his right hand, while the left felt looser. Edgar reached his hand up again, before letting it fall to the side limply. The gate was ajar now, and yet he hesitated. A letter was clutched in his right hand, a signature of red wax sealing it shut.
In his left hand was a blank canvas, a quarter of a dozen paintbrushes tucked in the waistband of his pants. The world felt empty for a mere few seconds, thoughts swimming in Edgar’s brain like leeches, sucking the life out of him as he suddenly felt like his knees could have given out beneath him at any moment. But, collecting his pride in one fell swoop, Edgar inhaled sharply, before entering the gate, allowing it to creak behind him.
His heels clicked against the path leading to the door, and once he made it to the front, he hesitated. Was this… really what he wanted? Was a simple art block going to lead him to change his entire lifestyle?
He thought of Mary, and Edgar knocked on the door with confidence.
Muffled chatter could be heard from inside, and, taking a step back, he waited. A few moments later, the door opened, and a young woman stared over the brim of her sunhat to look at Edgar. Her face was adorned with freckles, emerald eyes with flecks of hazel peering up at him curiously. A kind, gentle smile painted upon her childish features.
“Can I help you?” She said, cocking her head to the side softly, pulling the door open to its fullest extent.
“My name is Edgar Valden, I was sent…” He extended his right hand, where the letter resided, his name painted in wonderful cursive: Edgar Valden. “This letter. This is Oletus Manor, is it not?”
The girl bounced slightly, taking the letter into her gloved hands, speckles of dirt on her fingertips. “Edgar Valden! We received news we’d be getting a new survivor, right, right! Martha told us, gosh, Emma, you can’t go forgetting things!” She berated herself briefly, before clearing her throat and looking back up at Edgar. “Come in! It’s currently dinnertime, but we can get you settled in first! We can get your hands cleaned up too! Emily is our wondrous doctor here, and she can make sure you’re ready for whatever the manor throws at us survivors!” She ushered him in quickly, before shutting the door behind him.
Survivors… It was an odd word for the predicament. Also, this woman seemed… lower class. Edgar had told himself he might come upon people like her, so he would subconsciously attempt to have a clear conscience and steer away from judgment. Though it’s much easier said than done.
The front hall was formal, though still simple enough. Grand staircases lead up to the second floor, a gorgeous statue of Calliope sitting behind a table for two with healthy flowers in the center. Clearly, the baron must be a connoisseur of art. Edgar faintly heard the sound of Emma telling him to stay still, before she rushed to the left, opening the door that revealed the incessant chatter.
“Edgar!” Emma called, and he turned his head to the side, where now two women stood, the chatter in the dining hall becoming significantly quieter, small sounds of shushing accompanying it. Like they were listening. “This is Martha Behamfil! She’s one of the people who handles things like this, so I wanted her to introduce her to you first, and she can lead you to your room! I’m on cleaning duty tonight!” Emma stood a bit straighter, saluting comically before her eyes saccade towards Martha.
“It’s nice to meet you, Edgar,” Martha said, extending a hand that Edgar hesitantly took. She had a tight grip, keeping strong eye contact before letting her hands fall to her hips, standing proudly. “We can have ‘The Talk’ later, but for now, I’ll lead you to your room.”
Edgar stopped, not following her. “I’d appreciate if we had the talk now, whatever it may concern, I don’t appreciate things being sugar-coated. It’s a little suspicious too, it’s not like the manor has monsters crawling around it. That would be absurd.”
—
It turns out the manor apparently did have monsters, and Edgar scoffed in distaste, clearly not convinced. You’d have to be shallow to believe it on the spot, and although he was many things, Edgar was not shallow. He rolled his eyes, before gesturing to Martha to just lead him to his goddamn room. She slumped over, visibly disappointed having not convinced Edgar of whatever rambunctious lies she was spitting.
The room was towards the back, past dozens of others. As they walked, Martha pointed out small things. Statues, potted plants, the women’s bathroom (to which she jokingly pulled out her flare gun, and Edgar flinched, not having expected her to be armed), and finally the hallway which bore his own room. Along the way, he read the names embodied on the doors: Andrew Kreiss, Victor Grantz, Demi Bourbon, Luca Balsa—
Edgar stopped, his canvas falling from his hands.
His heart felt like it could have thumped out onto the floor, crawled out of his ribcage perhaps. It beat so meanly against his chest he felt dizzy. Martha took his shoulder immediately, and Edgar didn’t even flinch despite his distaste for the contact. It had been three years, had it not? There were still sketches of him in Edgar’s sketchbooks, he was almost sure, but those were back at home, and he was here.
He turned towards Martha, whose visage had contorted into one of fear. “Does Luca Balsa live here as well?” He asked, behaving as if he hadn’t gone into a brief catatonic state. She seemed to calm down, exhale softly, her expression now softening.
“He does. The ‘Prisoner’, as he’s formally called. He’s not in there right now. I believe he’s eating dinner with the rest of them. Let’s hurry to your room, it’s right up ahead.” And Martha practically pushed Edgar past a room labeled Melly Plinius, before they reached one with his own name.
The term “prisoner” seemed to ring in Edgar’s mind like a mantra, though one of confusion and altruism. There was a moment where he didn’t think of his own circumstances, of the apparent “monsters” who would murder people like Emma and Martha, his mind lingering on the thought that maybe there was another Luca Balsa. Perhaps it wasn’t the man with the cheeky smile and the bouncy hand gestures.
That night, he ate cold vegetables and felt too sick to finish.
—
The next day, it seemed like people were up bright early, ready for “matches”. That’s what they were called by Eli Clark, whose owl seemed to stare through Edgar’s eyes as they ate breakfast. He had always been an early riser, and he woke up at the crack of dawn alongside the Seer, the Grave Keeper, the Embalmer, and the Postman to eat breakfast. Aesop Carl didn’t seem to be much of a morning person, but Edgar wasn’t sure if any time of the day was best for him. He was stiff and awkward as Edgar sat down next to him.
The table consisted mostly of Edgar and Eli’s back-and-forth chatter, though the former wasn’t too intent on speaking while he shoveled food into his mouth. Aesop, as mentioned before, was clearly socially awkward, Andrew was quite possibly even worse, and Victor tried his best to contribute with notes scrawled and slid across the table. The food was good, considering that Eli and Aesop had made it, and one of them being blind.
“Do you have any matches today, Edgar?” Eli asked, his smile soft and welcoming.
“Not that I know of. I just arrived last night, so perhaps they’re being nice with me.” He shrugged, stabbing another strawberry with his fork and chewing on it.
Eli nodded. “That’s good to hear. Do you have any plans then?”
The food was sweet, and thankfully Edgar had a soft spot for the sugar which coated his fruit. He knew they were supposed to be healthy, but it’s better to distract his mind with the sweetness rather than the savory thoughts about Luca Balsa. Edgar shook his head, chewing again.
“I’ll most likely introduce myself to whoever approaches. I should’ve expected this,” He scoffed lightly, and thankfully Eli kept the same warm face. Despite not even being able to see his eyes, Edgar felt Eli was a good person. He responded with a light ‘ah~’ before continuing to eat in the comfortable silence.
Suddenly, the Grave Keeper stood up. Edgar knew his name was Andrew because Eli had said such.
“Do you have a match?” Eli asked, turning towards the man, who seemed to tower over them, his baggy clothes hiding the muscles beneath from shoveling so much dirt. Andrew shook his head.
“I’m going to bring breakfast to Luca,” Edgar went stiff. “He hasn’t left his room since last night.”
Fuck.
Edgar swallowed heavily. It was loud enough for Aesop to turn his direction, to which Edgar shot a harsh look, and the Embalmer turned right back to his plate. If Luca had been in his room last night, Edgar would simply have to pray that perhaps he was dead asleep, or too focused on his own invention that he couldn’t hear Edgar’s pained rambles through the night, his incessant shifting in his bed, and how he shuffled along with the wood of his room, thoughts plaguing his mind.
“Do you know Balsa?” Edgar spoke without thinking, immediately regretting it.
Andrew’s expression shifted to something horrible, as if Edgar had just insulted his entire family’s bloodline, and whoever may come next. Victor seemed to immediately react to this, reaching down to usher his dog to Andrew’s side, his hands frantically writing.
Andrew looked down at Wick, who ran around in circles around his feet, tail wagging. Victor handed a note to Edgar, before using some sort of sign language with Andrew. With his thumb and pinky fingers up, he gestured frantically between him and Andrew. “Me too”, he said silently.
They were off, and although Eli tried to keep stable conversation with him and Aesop, a match was clearly coming up soon, including the both of them.
Soon, Edgar was left by his lonesome, and peeled open the letter that the postman had written:
Dear Edgar Valden,
I didn’t get to formally introduce myself, but I’m Victor Grantz! It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I’m sure Wick would say the same if he could speak English. This is a bit of a rushed letter, as Andrew might explode any moment now. He tends to be like this often, but don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll warm up to you eventually! Luca is our friend, and I’m sure he would love to meet you given the chance! The three of us finish a match right before lunchtime, so I’ll try to give you a block of time to see him!
Best,
Victor Grantz
—
The clock was such at 5:18 permanently, so Edgar wasn’t exactly sure what time Oletus Manor’s “lunchtime” was.
Though in the time leading up to it, however, Edgar was successful considering all things. He spent a majority of the time in the garden, admiring the foliage. Emma Woods came in there, and he asked briefly about a patch of flowers that were blooming in the corner. She told him they were red carnations, and that they’d be in full bloom within a week or so. He nodded, kneeling down in front of them and pulling one of his sketchbooks (which were gratefully given in his room) out, flipping to a new page.
He introduced himself to a petite woman known as Margaretha Zelle, and they shared scarce conversation, as Edgar was in the middle of painting, and was never good at talking while he did so. Later in the day, he met the Mercenary, and after introducing themselves, they split. It was for the best, and Edgar noted that he was relatively quiet, and didn’t intend for incessant conversation when unnecessary.
“Hey! You’re the new guy, ain'tcha?”
Edgar’s pencil snapped, the graphite rolling down his paper as his hand began to shake almost violently. The voice was far too familiar, and it resonated within his mind before he turned around.
The man who stood in front of him had been Luca Balsa, the inventor with enormous dreams and a bright future. Now, he was Luca Balsa, an ex-convict on death row. His bright eyes were still there, though one was hidden beneath a dark hematoma that swelled his eye shut. He was clad in a black-and-white shirt, jeans, and a tool belt. And most of all, around his neck, was a shackle that tied him unwillingly to his past.
Edgar went stiff. “Balsa.” He whispered, and the man in question smiled, that same stupid fucking fang appearing.
“And you’re the painter guy! Glad we don’t have to do any formal introductions then! Sorry, my mem’ry is hazy! Can’t remember your name from the letter we got. Walden?” He cocked his head, stepping a bit closer as Edgar rose to his feet, a confused expression on his face. Balsa’s smile was still as bright as a thousand suns, and Edgar still wanted to paint him more than anything in the world.
“… Balsa.” He repeated like a broken record.
Luca’s smile faded slightly, confused, though it was still present. “Yeah! People kinda call me ‘the Prisoner’, but that’s all formalities! I don’t think we should be defined by our mistakes! Especially if we didn’t make them!” His voice lowered at the end, before he sparked back up, waving his gloved hand around as the other balanced a sandwich on a plate.
Edgar felt his heart sink into his stomach, then it felt like he could have coughed it back up. There was some sort of void in his stomach, sucking him up and eating him from the inside out. His lips were slightly agape, trembling as he simply stared at Luca. He had seen his face before in the moonlight of a crisp October night, but now it was a bright morning in a month he wasn’t sure of, three years later, and it seemed like everything had changed.
Luca didn’t remember him.
Luca didn’t remember him.
—
That day, Edgar ate lunch in his room, his heart still pounding before he smashed his plate against the wall, falling to his knees pathetically.
—
Edgar Valden found human relations to be important when necessary. Having an employer, or a significant other, or a family member, and communication was important to keep a roof over your head, to keep your heart warm. It was some sort of privilege, but it wasn’t frivolous.
Perhaps on some October evening in Oletus Manor, Luca would see Edgar in the backyard, an easel set up and his paintbrush stroking thoughtfully, and he would remember. He would remember exactly what happened with his master and who he was and his memories and where he came from and that evening he spent with Edgar. Though it was all dreamy thinking for Edgar, who had to start from square one with Luca Balsa.
Edgar Valden met an inventor, lost him, and in his place, he found a man built of empty puzzle pieces.
Luca Balsa was a man who had forgotten.