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Sometimes the living are scarier than the dead… especially when dentist chairs are involved and when angry men become vengeful for no reason. Governor's Special Place"…"  |
The move had been far from subtle. At least the beginning of it. Late one night two of the Governor's men had come to the place where Daryl was being kept. And while Daryl made it far from easy for the pair, they had managed to hit him hard on his head. Hard enough that he didn't move for awhile. Or, perhaps, it was whatever they'd injected him with that made sleep and its draw all too easy. But the new room in which Daryl wakes up is very different from the first.
While his last prison was far from luxurious, it had some amenities. Like cracks in the ceiling to demonstrate daylight. This room is little more than a shed, dark, dank, and musty. Yet along with these qualities it bears one far creepier. Quiet. Complete and total quiet.
The last prison had activity. Even the echoes of children playing within Woodbury's walls could be heard from Daryl's vantage point at different times of day. But now, here there is nothing but silence. Utter and complete silence.
The dark leather dentist's chair in which he wakes in is cold, even with him strapped onto it, possibly thanks to the climate of the room. The electrical wire around Daryl's wrists and arm pin him to the chair, and hardly offer a sense of comfort for the prisoner.
The ground, oddly enough, is dirt. Just loose dirt, rather than actual floor, but the walls of the room, smell of rotting cedar. In some ways, in a few months one might expect the entire building to fall.
To the right of the chair, just out of reach, rests a tray of various 'tools'.
Screw the room. It's the pounding headache known first— that drum-roll aftermath of being taken down the only sound, and it's all inside his head. Grabbing onto the pain helps Daryl rouse faster, and he jolts instinctively in the chair, instantly attuned to the feeling of entrapment. Wrists flex and twist as his chin startles back; he looks around the room but nearly all his attention's focused on his distaste for not being free until he lands on that nearby tray.
"The fuck— ?"
No… no, not so unknown, is it. Tools. A chair. Maybe not so 'refined' as all this, but he's been here.
He's held the knife.
All of Daryl's back tenses in ripples.
"Shhhh Sh Sh Sh Sh," behind Daryl, out of sight, yet certainly present, the Governor presses his fingers to his lips as he paces just out of sight, much like a cat stalking its prey. Even if Daryl can't see him, in many ways he can almost feel the presence of the Woodbury leader. There's electricity in the air, not unlike the heat that sticks to everything, it yields its own energy, and its forboding nature means there is little good left. "If you struggle more the wire will cut your flesh more. It might be wise," he pauses, lingering on the word like some might savour their dessert, "to restrain yourself. Course, that's 'tirely up to you." There's a laziness in his speech. It's almost too casual and too easy-going, particularly for what this place is, and what it represents.
Maybe he's trapped, but Daryl's a hunter— he tracks— and the Governor's presence creeps back and forth in his consciousness as if he'd eyes in the back of his head to watch him with. Having a foe behind and unseen prickles at him, at his senses; basically, it sucks, and he stills not for the man's words but to better calculate.
Daryl the hunter will continue to feel movement behind him as the Governor goes about his business. But Daryl isn't being hunted. He's caught. And the Governor is at ease in a way that's possibly too satisfied. "Shouldn't have gotten chummy with our Andrea, y'know." The laziness in speech continues. But somewhere behind, Daryl can hear the faint clanging of metal, not loud, but certainly present, as the Governor does whatever it is the Governor does…
In a twist of defiance, Daryl's right wrist tests the bonds; capture isn't something that settles in, it builds, and he shifts a foot restlessly. Hair on end, it wouldn't be out of place if he growled, his scabbed lip pressing hard into the upper. "She ain't yours, one-eyed willy."
Daryl can almost hear the Governor's smirk, "Everything that's in Woodbury belongs to me." Pause. "Including yourself. You'd do well know that." Again the clanging of metal transpires as the Governor goes about whatever business he's preparing.
He wrestles with the chair and the wire bites warningly. "Oh yeah, cyclops? Looks like you misplaced some'a yer stuff." Daryl's chin drops towards his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the Governor in his periphery. "Might wanna see to that."
Perhaps that's why Michonne had done what she'd done. Take his eye, to prove that she never belonged to him. Andrea though, Andrea is his. And so no matter what Daryl says, the Governor will only use it to fuel what he's already busy doing. "You familiar with Georgia leeches?" he idly changes the subject. "Some people use them as fishing bait."
A flare of Daryl's nostrils. No blind wondering or confused stammering here; he's keenly well aware of why he might be being asked this question. The stunted fingernails of his right hand dig into the dentists' chair arm with a squeak of cracking material as he itches for a knife.
The Governor is content with the effects of his question. The quiet from his participant is all he needs. Yes, he is in control of all of his playthings. He twists around finally, bearing a single long leech in hand. Its worm like appearance is not quite a worm. It's dark and kind of ugly. Sharp teeth round at the top of its mouth. The Governor, of course, feels the need to introduce Daryl. "This… is Clarice…"
Sighting the leech curls Daryl's lip down, discomfited but not shadowed by any distinct sense of fear, same as in his tone when he assures, "You're a fucking psycho." Flashes of familiarity with these procedures— this feeling, things of the past— do not translate into relaxation. Muscles remain tense, flexing into the chair, held in impotent readiness for a springing he's incapable of while bound.
There's a flicker of a smile at the accusation, but its a vile expression lacking the warmth or feeling generally associated with smiling. Slowly, carefully, he lowers Clarice to Daryl's nose. It's a game in a way, ensuring that Daryl can see it on his own face. "It's an art form, you know. So much more elegant than simply killing someone."
Half an eye closes, struggling with both the creature's proximity as well as keeping it in sights— at a point where it might be better not to see. Daryl's noise of agreeing is little more than a grunt at first as all his muscles twitch unhappily at bay to the slimy first touch of the leech. Clarice unfurls, wriggling precariously until she finds skin, can inch down. The bridge of the man's nose offers no succulent choice— most of him grimy, and partially underfed— but with a squirm half an inch to the left, she suckles down with a pinch and rip of skin.
Daryl snorts instinctively, made worse by a creepy fucking crawler weight plugging away there, chin trying to squirrel backwards. "Yeah, I know…" he mumbles, and it's fairly resigned, not even bashful about the certain truth: he does.
There's a twitch of a smile as Clarice does her work. The Governor stares down at his prey. He's more than a little pleased with himself and the results he feels he's already getting. "So," his lips curve again, "where are the rest of your little friends?" Not that that's even the goal here today. He twists around, back towards his workbench to retrieve another leech. Evidently he has many of them. When he strolls back towards Daryl, his latest leech has begun to squirm hungrily. "This is Becca," like the leeches have names… "she hasn't fed for some time now."
Once more the leech is lowered, this time to Daryl's forehead. Becca latches onto the skin hungrily and anxious for what she longs for.
"Fuck you, man," grumbles Becca's entree with a touch of his own bite. Though he twists his neck uncomfortably — and futilely — away from approaching blood-suckers, it's still that dour resignation in his tone: yeah, yeah. Governor has to ask, Daryl will never answer: blah blah. But there's venom under his tongue, fit to boil, even when there's nowhere for his temper to go. Annoyance, in turn, not fear or pain — not cowed; he scoffs at the pinch of the leeches as if they were a nuisance. "I lived with Merle. Y'think I ain't had a leech shoved somewhere ugly before?"
"I'm not the one that's fucked," comes the too smooth response from the Governor's lips. Although the notion of Merle's punishment is enough to give Philip pause. In fact, he halts for a moment in contemplation, as if considering other options. "Is that a challenge?" Yeah, that's what the real question is. "Are you daring me to do worse to you than your brother did?" Because it's a dare the Governor will most certainly take.
At first, it's like he might not respond; sniffing irritably, Daryl turns his chin to the far side, silent but alluding to more. Brother— father… mother. Clarice writhes, gorging, and he leans his head into the chair hard like he might be able to dislodge her, without the force suggesting he truly believes he can. "Who cares," he scoffs simply, ever on the edge of that growl, "Do yer worst. Yer gonna anyway."
The dare goads him on like a leech that has managed to weasel its way under The Governor's skin. He twitches. Visibly. There's a moment of silence and stillness, a moment of consideration, of actual pause. But in the Governor's care, the quiet can never last. Philip twists around, a single hand reaching forward, large, strong and calloused, to clasp Daryl's throat. Just to see it. Because he can.
The glint in the Governor's eyes changes. This is a man that hungers for control — of everything. And everything in Woodbury belongs to him. For his purposes. When he wants them.
"Unh— " escapes Daryl's throat as it feels the first tension, closing off rebelliously to the grip. Wrists have pushed against the wire before, but when they get no looser this time a palpable fear flashes through the man's eyes — like a scar: an old, remembered thing. Still, lifting a tensed jaw to glare thoroughly at the Governor through dark and narrow slits, any rotted old fear has no hold on defiance, even when the Governor has a hold on him.
He's wild. And the Governor goes hungry.
The grasp is released at Daryl's expression. If only to try harder later. Or to make it last longer. The same reason why anyone would choose to prolong such things. The Governor spits in Daryl's face. A cheap shot if only because there's no way to combat or dodge the action. Of course, if he was about fair play, this room would look very different overall. He backs up, and drops his chin to his chest to admire his handiwork thus far. "I am a fan of colour," he notes in his long drawn out Southern drawl. Not that he longs to tip his hand too much. There's always more to show.
When Daryl flinches, chin ducking to the opposite side too late, it's in disgust, mutually for himself for reacting as the Governor for doing. A mumbled exhale of protest, quieted with discomfort when the squinting of his eye scrunches his face enough to bring the pinching weight of the leeches back into full-force. Out of little more than anger— that defiance— he wrenches his left arm, hard. Wire embraces, tighter. "Yeah, I know you," he scolds, "Know sumthin' about guys like us."
There's a satisfied twitch of the Governor's lips, causing each of his frown lines to become more prominent. The creases double, tugging his lips and causing the rest of his face to respond in kind, like a cat that just caught a canary. He steps out of sight, and tugs on a pair of black leather gloves before picking a knife from his table of tricks. He strides back to his prisoner, and slides the broad side of the sharpened weapon over Daryl's cheeks.
Daryl's head pulls back, tipping the opposite cheek into the chair till he can't no more; little good it does except to show continued fight. The flinch to the cold feel of metal's instinctual rather than radiating pure fear. Though a lock of tension holds him, he's not still; an animal in a trap, there's always another muscle twitch, another flex to try, in pure, senseless revolt. Measuring, calculating, and restless— his grimace, teeth barely slit over his lower lip, contrarily prepared.
The fight in Daryl's face goads Philip on. Slow, sure, the Governor's hand tilts. The cool steel of the knife's edge is lightly drawn across soft flesh, not quite intent on drawing first blood, but certainly with little regard for the flesh underneath— like scratches caused by kittens with underdeveloped claws. The touch is teasingly light, like a lover's caress before awakening true passion. Foreplay at its finest.
A constant war, built of many battles, wages: Daryl versus chair, versus his learned flinching— his ingrained expectation. Temper flares against anxiety, rubbing it raw until he grumbles sharply, "Y'gonna tickle me, r'what?" Not all the blustering, false bravado, others in this hot-seat might be expected to employ: there's a true impatience to the way he throws his jaw up, pushing his dirty skin straight against the too-sharpened blade, creating the pressure the Governor waits for instead of shying from its anticipation. First blood goes to Daryl, wresting a control from Phillip even from a place of entrapment. "I ain't yer lady."
The Governor sneers at the loss, grasping Daryl's chin with his hand, fighting against the other man to force eye contact, even if he couldve had it at a distance. His knuckles whiten underneath the pressure as his grasp tightens. With the first blood drawn, and his satisfaction robbed, his face sneers, choosing to draw a cut, not as teasing as the first, on the other side. As defiant as he may be, the Governor makes the rules. Once the second cut is made, Daryl is released. "You are whatever I want you to be," he drawls lazily as he swaggers back to his bench. "You may not be my lady," pause "but you are certainly my bitch."
He flinches in pure physical acknowledgment of the pain into the Governor's palm when it's there, jerking his chin away as it leaves. Waiting— that was stupid; pain… pain he knows. "Fuck that!" A knee-jerk. Wire creases worn pants, cutting wrinkled lines like the rips already in both knees where white threads barely hold on across skin. Clarice's grown as if twice her size, perked by the dribble of blood-loss escaping in front of her suckling spot. "And fuck you! Governor, my ass. Men like you n'me, Gov'ner," the name now oozes with milky sarcasm, "We ain't fit to run jack squat. No honor," a sizzle of respect, rather than guilt for indicating his own self in the crime. From eying his periphery, he rocks his head forward, sniffing deliberately as blood reaches into the stubble of his jaw. "And 'Drea's smart, y'know. She's gonna figure you out. Everybody in this fucked up Sesame Street will, and you'll just be left with yer dick in yer hand, asswad."
The Governor's one good eye stares through rather than at Daryl, not that the latter man can see it with the former lingering behind him. His fingers twitch at his side and his bottom lip quivers with some suppressed rage. The knife is retrieved again, and heavy weighted steps drive the Governor back to Daryl. The blade is used to slice the other man's shirt right down the centre. He's changing tactics…
Ragged olive green flaps drop uselessly around Daryl's ribs; already a sparse covering to begin with, the sleeveless shirt's no opposition. The leather vest atop hugs his shoulders more than the exposed skin down his chest. His stomach flexes, pulling hollowly in as if self-conscious. Rather than bitch— he's said his part!— he shoves his tongue, hard, inside a cheek, chain raising.
Wordlessly, the Governor once more runs the broad side of his blade across Daryl's stomach: slow and sure. The blade is cold and smooth. He releases a quiet breath. He will not be denied this or anything that is his right. Including his paltry foreplay. Not even Daryl's fighting can thwart the longing that lies in his own consciousness.
Physical sensation — though it causes his stomach to tighten again — secondary to that weird-ass breathing. Something about the quiet bothers Daryl as much as the knife against his skin, that unforgiving dull cold and sharp hardness of metal, and his squirm's meant to be more spiteful than useful. Then: a third. An unhappy familiarity that has his teeth clenching with both uneasiness and an unresolved compliance that's somehow that and anything but.
The Governor looks pensive, yet still sure. His head cocks to the side as he runs the blade gently down the expanse of Daryl's skin in the same pattern as that on his face. It's a caress, the worst caress. The skimming of the weapon scratches, but doesn't cut persay. It's a tease. A start. A fondle of sorts for things yet to come. Followed by a faint brush of fingers. The knife then, is allowed to linger lower along Daryl's waistline. The knife is allowed to graze the top edge of the other man's pants, slicing fabric rather than skin, but not all of the way through. Just enough to test the waters and how much it will take to destroy the already-worn denim.
Everything in the Governor calls for him to conquer and destroy. And defiance is precisely what incites said destruction…
Along his stomach, Daryl follows— that notch suddenly cut out of the top of his flagging pants elicits a new writhe: like, okay, we had our joke and it's over now. Wriggling knees strain the giant holes already cut out of his slacks there. The tough fabric bends sooner than cuts, however, even to the sharpness of the blade; they're a thick material, calling for further violence to truly rip. A real— dedication.
And the Governor has real dedication. Eye narrows as he fudges more with the fabric. His hands grope at denim to prevent bending. Cutting is what he wants. The knife fights the fabric into submission. And in the end, the knife slices the folds of the tough fabric. They've lived through much of the zombie apocalypse, but against the Governor's knife it doesn't stand a chance. Not when he's determined.
"Sh— " Unfinished except in the hiss of Daryl's tongue behind his teeth as he bolts up, abruptly, as though he suddenly expects to be able to escape off the top of the chair. Hitting brutally tight restraints, he backtracks, sinking; dipping his stomach and groin in like that might somehow anchor his attacked pants to him— little good as they split, but he can't not move, even when a squirm with a sharp blade over his hips and crotch seems absurdly dangerous. It's not like he's got anything else between him and metal; the Governor's highly unwanted fingers and knuckles graze dirty, bare skin. "The fuck, man— !" is both ferociously anger, shooting unresolved spittle, and pitched high, for a brand of naivety generally thought to be extinct in these new times.
The hiss of the 'sh' sound draws the faintest upward tick of the Governor's lips. Here he has the power. And the littlest reaction prompts him to bare his teeth in turn. Wolfishly, he languishes in the pain the restraints provide. The dare had been given, and in such bets, the Governor always intends to win. The comment, complete with a curse, causes the Governor to tilt his head to the side in admiration of his own work thus far. But it doesn't stop him, no, his hunger has become insatiable. Fingertips along skin follow the same pattern as before, barely touching, but certainly pleasant, basking in the power such things afford and the ways in which he manages to achieve whatever he wants whenever he wants. His fingers trail passed hip bones, unabashedly reveling in the discomfort afforded upon his victim.
He's flayed before, Daryl— sawed the skin right off of a person to get what he needed, sure— but there's a line, and this madman's fingers unhesitatingly cross it. Passed, Daryl's hips buck up, impaling his knees hard enough on their criss-cross restraints that skin breaks; a trail of blood slips shyly down the left leg, disappearing behind fabric. "No way in hell, you fucking faggot!" Hot temper flares but, trapped in the chair, has nowhere to go, baking Daryl in useless frustration worse than anything else: helplessness, a terrible rage. Teeth clench with a squeak then are shook free when he wrenches his body again. "I ain't nobody's bitch!"
It's Governor delights in his every complaint that emits from Daryl's mouth. What started as fingertips transforms to all on touch. A hand palms Daryl's inner thigh, inching its way more and more uncomfortably to the prisoner's most secret places. The touch is gentle at first, almost as if it's invited, but it doesn't stay gentle. It becomes rough, angry, and sadistic almost like a switch has been flipped.
Sweat springs across his hair-matted forehead, along the risen hairs of Daryl's arm; only sitting, but muscles ache with tenseness. "Nnn," sneaks out of clenched teeth as blood hurries faster down that left leg; his right arm bulges with effort. Hardened by tough living still lets all those groped nerves send bursts of sensitivity straight to his gut. "God— " he huffs, tossing his head back into the chair violently; leeches, bleeding cheeks barely a blip, "dammit."
The Governor's pleasure isn't in the action, but in the reaction. He's won. By all accounts, in his own mind, he has conquered everything there is to conquer here. The violence is the release. The ease of it, the satisfaction. He lets go, having achieved his desired effect. "Where are they?" he asks. Gentle this time. Coy perhaps. Daryl now knows how far he will go to get what he wants.
A shoulder's thrown into the chair, too, twisting, in appearance, less against its bonds than in retreat from the Governor. Not entirely true. Daryl's violent shift backwards into the squeaking material of the repurposed dentist's seat reinforces the strain of his right arm as it slides, inch by painful inch, under the tightly corded wire that strips his knuckles of skin as he goes. Muscles bulge and flex, fighting, trying to thin while also tensing to work. As he seems to fight the Governor's closeness, jaw tightening like in anger to the proposed question — the betrayal of his friends — he's writhing his elbow down. A thumb knuckle catches; he bleeds— but the wire pops free. Pain flares everywhere the metal cord bites into him for the force, but who cares. In the same pop of releasing bonds, he's swinging for the fences: newly broken knuckles connect with a ferocious crack against the Governor's pompous nose.
Now he can know how much Daryl don't give a shit about what the Governor wants.
He can barely relish the sensation, instead immediately trying to squirm in the chair to organize further break-outs, while the arm arcs up to his face, scowling as he buries a fingernail around the front orifice of the leech against his nose to dislodge the sucker.
The punch, with all of its force, causes the Governor to spin away from his victim. The noise that emits from his lips is somewhere between a groan and a shriek— something pained, yet simultaneously surprised, as his hands move, quite protectively to his now bleeding nose. His eyes tear, and he is, disoriented for a moment. But just one. In many respects, the predator operates much like any of the big cats in Africa's wilds. He can be off-put, but the single-minded nature of bloodshed to maintain status, causes him to recoil downwards. He bends at the waist, trying to collect himself amongst the noises he makes. One hand remains at his nose while the other reaches for something far more lethal— the knife strapped to the inside of his leg just under his pants.
It's more of a gangbanger rather than a hunter's knife. Serated on one side, coming to a perfectly sharpened point. It's a weapon designed to damage. If he can get it up in time.
Ripping the half-dislodged leech off, Daryl flings its gorged squishy body at the reeling Governor while desperately shaking a leg free to kick out, attempting to force any kind of distance between himself and the edge of whatever the freak's got going on over there. Time isn't on his side; he flails his leg, but has to twist to try and yank the doubly tight cord from his other arm as fingers on that still trapped hand clench manically then release, pulling, trying. Whatever fluke was in the binding of his first arm isn't here now and he grunts, jerking too hard, in a noticeable frustration.
Blade brandishes upwards while the Governor's free hand reaches out to push down on Daryl's shoulder. Pinning the prisoner is everything. The knife, in his other hand, is thrust upwards to come against the other man's neck just underneath his chin.
It revolts against being pinned; though caught awkwardly in a half-escape and slamming into the chair, Daryl's shoulder jumps back up, misplacing the Governor's knife aim so that the blade slices along Daryl's collarbone, sparking a line of superficial red before his strength manages to keep the wild animal at bay. Shoved back again, with a new grunt of protest, Daryl pauses, murder in his staring eyes— but a slight amusement when they trail to the other man's nose, when the knife finds its renewed way to his throat.
One sinister eye trains on Daryl as the Governor manages to get control over the situation. Well, pseudo-control. But he's more aware of the situation than ever before. His hands remain where they are, fixed on his prisoner. A single call emits from his lips, gruff and loud, "Wyatt, get in here!" The words summon a burly man through the entrance, someone presumably there to help pin the prisoner.
Tastes of possible freedom make a squirming patient out of Daryl, the chair squeaking animatedly beneath him as he indulges flexes here and there: a hand that was launching up to try and wrestle the knife seems to have second guessed itself at the call of another name and Daryl hesitates long enough for Wyatt to appear, causing his bleeding knuckles to clench. "Yeah, come on, lapdog!" he goads to the burly servant.
Wyatt's gaze shifts from the Governor to Daryl and then back again, silently willing himself not to be here. But then, he is obedient. He strides into the room, his build becoming more obvious with every taken step. Daryl's goading, however, quickens each step, and prompts him to take the Governor's stance, arms pressing down hard to pin the prisoner.
With Wyatt doing his bidding, the Governor eases on Daryl and marches back to his bench somewhere behind Daryl's back. He returns with a syringe. He holds it up to the light and pushes on it to remove all air bubbles.
Build or not, Daryl does not go quietly; he wrestles, even uselessly, against Wyatt with a pointed inexhaustible rebellion. One that shifts to make room for the expression seen out there, amongst the hateful crowd, when light glints off the syringe. It's a look belying Daryl's age, fading the hardened underneath the dirt of apocalypse living til he's younger: younger, and trapped; mistrustful and betrayed. Almost frightened and almost resigned. None of this means he stops writhing against Wyatt's hold.
With each wiggle, Wyatt presses down firmer, pinning Daryl with all of his might. With the syringe effectively prepared, the needle is plunged into Daryl's arm. The Governor steps back, and eyes his handiwork.
Muscles squeak louder than the chair cracks as biceps bulge to fight a losing battle, desperate and unabashedly worried. Beyond bondage, beyond a man clutching him— helplessness, by mere concept, sends a rush of adrenaline through him. A half-untangled leg whacks out at Wyatt's knee, unsure whether it has the mobility and so just jolting back and forth several times in hope, not noticing if a first hit works or if he's not moving at all: is Wyatt still even holding him? The syringe's been depressed, he notices with a delay and a shake of his head, face patched with the remnants of the leeches splattered on the floor.
Becca… that other one. Murdered.
Daryl, as the culprit, jolts, sinks… eyes fluttering with a displaced zen. His chin sags downward then he throws it up too heavily to compensate. Biceps flex then relax… and spring up; he lurches forward, groin bucking, and once free arm wrestling as hard as possible with what courses through his veins with fake reassurance. Registering the effect with a flash of brain function, he curses in revelation, "You fucking— coward— " then his head thumps backwards against the chair's headrest.
Wyatt groans in pain. The kick had effectively disrupted his hold, but the drug did its work, drawing the youngest Dixon down into a hazy state. He holds his knee and takes a few limped steps back, "Look boss I don't know why he's in here," or why the Governor sees fit to torture this one, "but maybe keepin' him 'hind bars is a better way— "
The Governor too takes a step back and admires his handiwork thus far, all while pinching the fleshy end of his nose. Darkness has begun to form underneath his eyes, slight bruising from Daryl's landed punch. "This one doesn't get that kindness. This one knows things we need outta his head for our own safety." His hand moves to his jaw which he presses firmly again until it clicks loudly. "Get two others in here and tie 'im up to something sturdier. This'll be his own prison for a long while."
The Governor's weight shifts and he begins striding towards the door, bound for the physician to get patched up as best they can manage with what they have on hand.
His departing words are given by the coldness of his back:
"There will be no mercy for the Dixons."