[She's already heading toward the door, in fact. So provided she doesn't get stuck in her apartment elevator like she did yesterday, she'll be there shortly.]
[When Nebula arrives, she'll find not much changed, the building hasn't been particularly cleaned up on the outside and there's evidence of scuffles near the front windows, phallic shaped smudges on some of the glass, blood stains here and there on the pavement and the bricks, a bit more advertising in the window and a note of the available products, with Malcolm being more business-minded than D'Artagnan had been, but the hookah bar still hadn't been the man's focus. Inside, it looks the same with colourful floor cushions and low geometric tables, hookahs set out and a cabinet of organised blends on the wall behind the counter. The door's unlocked, as the wards keep out anyone unwelcome, and D'Artagnan's taken up a stool behind the counter, looking through a ledger and clearly disinterested in doing so. He looks relatively the same too, dressed in black jeans and a dark maroon leather jacket, his hair half grown back out and chin-length, swept back by a black beret. He's garnered a few minor facial scars, and a smaller nick taken out of his left earlobe.]
Nebula.
[His greeting is perfunctory on the surface, voice flat and dry, but his eyes show more emotion, both an interest in seeing her again, and commiseration on her unfortunate return. Slipping off the stool, he nods towards the back off the room where the hallway leads off to the space he'd once used as an arsenal, presuming she'll not wish to sit around and chat idly.]
[It does look almost exactly like she remembers it as she walks up to the door, aside from a few minor things. Stepping inside, her eyes scan the hookah bar, taking it all in before her black eyes settle on the man waiting for her behind the counter, and noting how he's changed. The scars tell a story that she assumes tells that he's continued fighting this place as hard as ever.
Nebula, for her part, looks different too. The metal plate above her eye is no longer there, leaving only a sharp eyebrow and blue skin. Her cybernetic arm looks different, a replacement for the one she'd had before. It's more advanced than her old one, but D'Artagnan likely wouldn't be able to tell that just by sight, considering his technological knowledge. She's as serious as ever, but there is something in her changed. She's softer, less harsh around the edges. There's even a small smile there at the corner of her lips at seeing him, despite hating the fact that she's back.]
D'Artagnan. [She follows him to the back.] You look like you've seen a few battles since I was here last...
[He's subtle about taking in the differences, the area around Nebula's eye most obvious to him, and though his fist instinct would be to presume an earlier arrival before the metal piece had been affixed there, he knows it can't be, not if she remembers him. A repair perhaps, or something else entirely, her level of technology and what medical knowledge comes from her world, galaxy, time, it's all unknown to him. His eyes linger on her arm too, different in a way he can't specify, and thoughts like upgrading a weapon don't occur to him, for he's never seen her as such, nor considered the cybernetics 'parts'. It's the hint of a smile instead of a smirk, and the warmer note in her eyes that allow him more display of his own emotions, a faint but broad smile of his own as he opens the door to the back room.]
Not as many as I'd like. There's been... complications.
[Some out of his control, and some he's ashamed originated within himself, caught by the lure of settling and grasping onto what positive things he could of this world. A false contentment that bred nothing but bitterness and enmity in the end. The room is rather empty at present: a few items on shelves that had clearly just been used for actual storage for a time, a set of throwing knives, glass bottles likely to be used for molotov cocktails, a couple of swords, a crossbow. The leaky pipe remains in disrepair over in the corner near where the floorboards open up, the one bare bulb casting a dim circle of light and not quite reaching the corners of the room. It smells dank and musty, with the stale smoke permeating from the main seating area.]
... How long as it been for you, away, in your world?
Complications. [She remembers all the complications he, James, and her had had when they'd worked together at the beginning. But the way he says it, makes her think it's not something like that.] Are those complications mitigated now? Or still... ongoing?
[Looking over the meager stocks on the shelves, hand running along the shelf holding the swords, reaching to take one out of curiosity. She doesn't need a sword, but she did like weapons.]
It's been nearly a year. [She spins the blade in her hand.] It is strange. I did not remember this place when I was home, but the moment I came back... everything that happened here simply slotted back into my memory.
[Everything this place could do to them unsettled her.]
[As Nebula looks over the swords, D'Artagnan leans against the wall between two shelving units, crossing his arms at his ribs, chewing at the inside of his lower lip.]
That's a long time, and to be thrust back here where it all... returns to you.
[It's difficult for him to imagine, as he's never left, but recently there'd been two others gone a year and returned, though they'd only been asleep for a matter of days. Nebula has been gone months, though he's forgotten how many, exactly when it is she'd left. Sighing to himself, something between exasperated and resigned, he shrugs a bit, his tone dry and without much inflection, despite the subject he speaks on.]
Regarding the complications, I'd drawn away from rebellion for a time. I stopped fighting, for someone I love, and it proved poor choice I'd realised. That complication, I'm done with. The other, I'd been too outspoken. I forget if you were here for Tumenalia, but that's when they did it. I'd a citation for warning people of it. They tortured me, sessions of electric shocks to make me associate sedition and dissent with pain. It worked, too well, and I... still feel them if I think certain things. I can't control this... twitching, and it's difficult to speak.
[It's very much a problem, and he's only recently accepted it for what it's become. Shifting, he points one finger at his temple.]
The damage is irreparable, I've been told. I'd thought to fix it, many times, before I understood that. Whatever we do now, I'll be a liability, but I'll not break from this again, the resistance. I've things I can do and not get in the way. Organisation, notes, clandestine meetings in small measures.
[She listens even if she's not looking at him every single moment, instead running a finger along the blade to test is durability and sharpness. Being back is odd, she couldn't even say she missed anyone here because she'd not known to miss them. And if she did miss them in some capacity anyway, did that imply in some way she wanted to be here? There are a lot of confusing feelings running through her head.
Her expression softens slightly at the mention of him falling in love. Nebula's never been in love. Not really. Infatuations, perhaps. Like she'd had with Jim, not that she'd ever told him. Maybe he'd known. Her gaze rolls back up to his face when he mentions the citation and all that came after. The blade is set down soon after. She's upset on his behalf. He'd been a friend to her, like a fellow Guardian, when she'd had none of them here.]
Does it hurt now? [She steps forward, black eyes searching his face. Nebula knew torture all too well.] I wasn't always like this, you know-- [Nebula taps her arm and a metal plate that still remains on the side of her head despite the slight changes he can see.] But someone told me once... 'we work with what we've got'.
[D'Artagnan thinks to say no, impart a partial falsehood for it, but as he regards her, her intense eyes and knowing she needs no softening of anything he might speak on, just as he wants from people himself, he can't lie.]
Not where I notice it as much, presently. My thoughts are brief and faint, not directed. It's there, but I've gotten used to it at this... intensity. It's been seven months now. When we start discussing things, actionable things, or where I think clear... clearly...
[Which he's done, a thought on intended dissent, retaliation against the city, the Creator, it flows too easily in his mind once letting the first piece slip from his hold. He twitches, a few jerking motions, fingers flexing and grasping at nothing, his eyes unfocused and sliding off to the side, attempts to finish his sentence as his throat tightens, and all that comes out is low vowel noises and a pained hiss. It's a quick reaction, though it feels longer to him, and when he can control himself, he tries to return to where he'd stopped, licking his lip and letting out a harsh exhale.]
When I think clearly on it, well. You've seen it now. We work with what we've got, as you've said.
[His voice is rasping more than usual, spoken with more urgency to get it all out, irrational fear of judgment and pity though he knows, logically, objectively, that Nebula won't engage in that condemnation of weakness.]
[She's moving closer, a hand reaching out to steady him, only to let it fall as he seems to regain most of his control. Nebula stays there, only a few feet from him, in case he starts to falter again. There's no pity on her face, just an understanding.
Nebula isn't going to go into it right now, as this isn't about her, but she knows what it is to be controlled and tortured into compliance. Seeing it in someone else does nothing but make her rage against their oppressors. And that D'Artagnan hasn't ultimately chosen to give up means something. It makes her respect him even more.]
Does what they've done in any way compel you to report those plotting seditious acts? [She trusts him, but she also knows what this place is capable of, so it seems worth asking.]
[Though she'd intended to be there if necessary, and there's no wish for comfort in her closeness, D'Artagnan reaches out himself, a brief but firm splay of fingers at Nebula's bicep, hoping to convey an acknowledgement both of the silent commiseration on something she's not outwardly addressed, and for the anger in her dark eyes, for he often feels that simmering rage himself for what's happened to others. It's a look he knows well, subtle and obscured as it is. D'Artagnan furrows his eyebrows as he considers the question, it's not taken as suspicion against him, for it's a reasonable query.]
No.
[It's quiet and roughly spoken, and within that simple word is a thread of realisation they could do such a thing, and might at a future point. The possibility is not to be discarded.]
It was to silence me, nothing broader than that. The citation was for seditious speech, but it was my fourth for that offense. An escalation, as their other measures hadn't worked.
[He snorts then, a sardonic bent to his commentary.]
[Her brow quirks as D'Artagnan clutches her arm, but she doesn't move to encourage or discourage the touch. Nebula understands the intent well enough, even if she doesn't give voice to it. There's so much of her life that she'd felt helpless against. Namely, what Thanos aimed to make her. And at what he'd succeeded in making her. In many ways, she still viewed herself as his monster, despite all she'd overcome.
Nebula can't help but smirk after he snorts, approval laced in her expression.] Good. I am glad to see you haven't been cowed despite their best efforts to break you.
[Even if she hates to see him this way. Her expression turns a moment, caught on a question rolling around in her brain. One that she's not sure if she should ask because she wants a certain answer and hearing anything else might hurt too much. Finally, she shoves it out regardless.] What about Jim? I know he left, did they ever manage to break him?
[Her smirk brings a smile to his face, genuine and broad, for he had been so close to breaking. He's done it more than once, smaller degrees, but to have been near capitulation and persevered, he can take a measure of pride in it now, even if he'd felt weak for his faltering. Speaking of Jim keeps the smile there.]
Not for one moment. The last I spoke with him, he'd been involved in an... another...
[It gives way to twitching again, but he forces the words out, wincing.]
Plot with t-those... of similar mi... minds.
[Exhaling slowly, the names comes easier as he shoves the central thought away with much effort.]
Cassian Andor and Max Guevara. They're both still here. Jim, he left without ever backing down. If he returns, whether he remembers or not, I'm certain he'd join us once again.
[He nods at that sentiment, even without him here, Jim's drive remains something to admire and remember, to recall in times of despair.]
I don't know them well myself. I've spoken to Cassian more often.
[As he speaks, a more casual tone, he moves to take up the loose floorboard by the pipe in the back, pulling out a lockbox that now again holds his assembled notes and other materials on small storage cards. He sets it on the folding table, and opens it, a stack of handwritten observations, labels on the supplemental material.]
This is all I have at present, and I'd recently taken a look through all of the old publicly accessible network posts. Information varies, but I think I've organised it well enough.
[She moves to look immediately, reaching in to take a stack gently in her hands. Nebula will make sure it keeps whatever organization D'Artagnan's devised. Her eyes scan each page. It's a substantial amount of information. An impressive amount. Nebula had known how much he'd wanted to fight this place, but hadn't understood the full extent of what he'd undertaken, clearly.]
You've done more than well enough. [How impressed she is crystal clear in her voice. It's a start difference to how she'd spoken to him and Jim on their first missions together. Not a singly 'idiot' is about to be spoken.] It's good that it's written down too...
[Something a cyborg would not usually say, but.]
Harder to confiscate or track. Although you should make duplicates, just in case. If you haven't already. I'd researched the network posts the last time, and nearly everything I remember in my memory core is here.
[A crooked smile pulls at the edge of his mouth, an awkward pride in it, for Nebula isn't often so blatant in her praise, not that he recalls. He'd expected perhaps a bit of affectionate malignment on his organisation or chiding for all the unnecessary secrecy, but this is genuine, and D'Artagnan's small hum of a noise sounds rather smug in response, but there's a warmth in his dark eyes over her acknowledgement. On the matter of duplicates, he snorts to himself, though, having mentioned that to the last person he'd showed the notes to.]
I've not. I thought it... somehow ill-advised. I suppose it's not though, is it?
[As she speaks of her memory core, he chews at his lip, for it's only now he understands just how much Nebula might hold in her... circuitry, a strange notion to compare her at all to the computers and other devices that are... machinery.]
Good. I've been thorough then. I thought we might find something to build... build on with more c-caution than... destruct...
[He can't finish it, fingers pressing hard into the table, but the gist of his comment has been made.]
Copies may increase the chance of them being found, but you also don't want to risk losing it all if your only copies are discovered.
[There are risks and benefits to both strategies. But she still thinks copies are the better of the options.]
I understand... our original plan with Jim was one ultimately only based in revenge and destruction. Biding our time, learning as much as we can, it's better. [Nebula sets the papers back, closing the box for now. She'll no doubt look through them all more later.] I am not always good with having patience.
[There's too much rage in her sometimes to allow herself to wait. It's been a flaw of hers for a long time.]
I appreciate you bringing me here, telling me, and showing me this. [Having that kind of trust in her felt good. Sure, they'd worked together before, but time had passed. It meant something to her.] Being here again, I felt somewhat untethered.
[This gave her a goal. A meaning. Something other than rage. Although that is fueling her too.]
[It's quiet and quick, a nod as if he'd perhaps not ever considered keeping it from her, or not wishing her involvement. Rebels themselves aren't so rare, but those willing to actually do something and not resort to simply talking about it every so often amidst their swath of parties as if it an afterthought, those people are hard to come by. Those who will risk everything. D'Artagnan had almost fallen into the beginnings of that trap, but he'd escaped the cage of acceptance and he'll not look back.]
I've felt untethered for a long time now, I need this too.
[He'd told Malcolm the same thing when he'd asked to take over the Smoking Wand again, for what is he without a purpose?]
We may not prevail, not for years, but we'll not back down.
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[She's already heading toward the door, in fact. So provided she doesn't get stuck in her apartment elevator like she did yesterday, she'll be there shortly.]
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Nebula.
[His greeting is perfunctory on the surface, voice flat and dry, but his eyes show more emotion, both an interest in seeing her again, and commiseration on her unfortunate return. Slipping off the stool, he nods towards the back off the room where the hallway leads off to the space he'd once used as an arsenal, presuming she'll not wish to sit around and chat idly.]
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Nebula, for her part, looks different too. The metal plate above her eye is no longer there, leaving only a sharp eyebrow and blue skin. Her cybernetic arm looks different, a replacement for the one she'd had before. It's more advanced than her old one, but D'Artagnan likely wouldn't be able to tell that just by sight, considering his technological knowledge. She's as serious as ever, but there is something in her changed. She's softer, less harsh around the edges. There's even a small smile there at the corner of her lips at seeing him, despite hating the fact that she's back.]
D'Artagnan. [She follows him to the back.] You look like you've seen a few battles since I was here last...
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Not as many as I'd like. There's been... complications.
[Some out of his control, and some he's ashamed originated within himself, caught by the lure of settling and grasping onto what positive things he could of this world. A false contentment that bred nothing but bitterness and enmity in the end. The room is rather empty at present: a few items on shelves that had clearly just been used for actual storage for a time, a set of throwing knives, glass bottles likely to be used for molotov cocktails, a couple of swords, a crossbow. The leaky pipe remains in disrepair over in the corner near where the floorboards open up, the one bare bulb casting a dim circle of light and not quite reaching the corners of the room. It smells dank and musty, with the stale smoke permeating from the main seating area.]
... How long as it been for you, away, in your world?
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[Looking over the meager stocks on the shelves, hand running along the shelf holding the swords, reaching to take one out of curiosity. She doesn't need a sword, but she did like weapons.]
It's been nearly a year. [She spins the blade in her hand.] It is strange. I did not remember this place when I was home, but the moment I came back... everything that happened here simply slotted back into my memory.
[Everything this place could do to them unsettled her.]
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That's a long time, and to be thrust back here where it all... returns to you.
[It's difficult for him to imagine, as he's never left, but recently there'd been two others gone a year and returned, though they'd only been asleep for a matter of days. Nebula has been gone months, though he's forgotten how many, exactly when it is she'd left. Sighing to himself, something between exasperated and resigned, he shrugs a bit, his tone dry and without much inflection, despite the subject he speaks on.]
Regarding the complications, I'd drawn away from rebellion for a time. I stopped fighting, for someone I love, and it proved poor choice I'd realised. That complication, I'm done with. The other, I'd been too outspoken. I forget if you were here for Tumenalia, but that's when they did it. I'd a citation for warning people of it. They tortured me, sessions of electric shocks to make me associate sedition and dissent with pain. It worked, too well, and I... still feel them if I think certain things. I can't control this... twitching, and it's difficult to speak.
[It's very much a problem, and he's only recently accepted it for what it's become. Shifting, he points one finger at his temple.]
The damage is irreparable, I've been told. I'd thought to fix it, many times, before I understood that. Whatever we do now, I'll be a liability, but I'll not break from this again, the resistance. I've things I can do and not get in the way. Organisation, notes, clandestine meetings in small measures.
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Her expression softens slightly at the mention of him falling in love. Nebula's never been in love. Not really. Infatuations, perhaps. Like she'd had with Jim, not that she'd ever told him. Maybe he'd known. Her gaze rolls back up to his face when he mentions the citation and all that came after. The blade is set down soon after. She's upset on his behalf. He'd been a friend to her, like a fellow Guardian, when she'd had none of them here.]
Does it hurt now? [She steps forward, black eyes searching his face. Nebula knew torture all too well.] I wasn't always like this, you know-- [Nebula taps her arm and a metal plate that still remains on the side of her head despite the slight changes he can see.] But someone told me once... 'we work with what we've got'.
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Not where I notice it as much, presently. My thoughts are brief and faint, not directed. It's there, but I've gotten used to it at this... intensity. It's been seven months now. When we start discussing things, actionable things, or where I think clear... clearly...
[Which he's done, a thought on intended dissent, retaliation against the city, the Creator, it flows too easily in his mind once letting the first piece slip from his hold. He twitches, a few jerking motions, fingers flexing and grasping at nothing, his eyes unfocused and sliding off to the side, attempts to finish his sentence as his throat tightens, and all that comes out is low vowel noises and a pained hiss. It's a quick reaction, though it feels longer to him, and when he can control himself, he tries to return to where he'd stopped, licking his lip and letting out a harsh exhale.]
When I think clearly on it, well. You've seen it now. We work with what we've got, as you've said.
[His voice is rasping more than usual, spoken with more urgency to get it all out, irrational fear of judgment and pity though he knows, logically, objectively, that Nebula won't engage in that condemnation of weakness.]
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Nebula isn't going to go into it right now, as this isn't about her, but she knows what it is to be controlled and tortured into compliance. Seeing it in someone else does nothing but make her rage against their oppressors. And that D'Artagnan hasn't ultimately chosen to give up means something. It makes her respect him even more.]
Does what they've done in any way compel you to report those plotting seditious acts? [She trusts him, but she also knows what this place is capable of, so it seems worth asking.]
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No.
[It's quiet and roughly spoken, and within that simple word is a thread of realisation they could do such a thing, and might at a future point. The possibility is not to be discarded.]
It was to silence me, nothing broader than that. The citation was for seditious speech, but it was my fourth for that offense. An escalation, as their other measures hadn't worked.
[He snorts then, a sardonic bent to his commentary.]
I suppose this one hasn't either.
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Nebula can't help but smirk after he snorts, approval laced in her expression.] Good. I am glad to see you haven't been cowed despite their best efforts to break you.
[Even if she hates to see him this way. Her expression turns a moment, caught on a question rolling around in her brain. One that she's not sure if she should ask because she wants a certain answer and hearing anything else might hurt too much. Finally, she shoves it out regardless.] What about Jim? I know he left, did they ever manage to break him?
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Not for one moment. The last I spoke with him, he'd been involved in an... another...
[It gives way to twitching again, but he forces the words out, wincing.]
Plot with t-those... of similar mi... minds.
[Exhaling slowly, the names comes easier as he shoves the central thought away with much effort.]
Cassian Andor and Max Guevara. They're both still here. Jim, he left without ever backing down. If he returns, whether he remembers or not, I'm certain he'd join us once again.
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Good. [If he had broken, Nebula would have never forgiven herself for not being here. Not that she'd had much of a choice in leaving.] That's good.
I think I have seen their names on the network, but I don't know them. I'll have to start.
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I don't know them well myself. I've spoken to Cassian more often.
[As he speaks, a more casual tone, he moves to take up the loose floorboard by the pipe in the back, pulling out a lockbox that now again holds his assembled notes and other materials on small storage cards. He sets it on the folding table, and opens it, a stack of handwritten observations, labels on the supplemental material.]
This is all I have at present, and I'd recently taken a look through all of the old publicly accessible network posts. Information varies, but I think I've organised it well enough.
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You've done more than well enough. [How impressed she is crystal clear in her voice. It's a start difference to how she'd spoken to him and Jim on their first missions together. Not a singly 'idiot' is about to be spoken.] It's good that it's written down too...
[Something a cyborg would not usually say, but.]
Harder to confiscate or track. Although you should make duplicates, just in case. If you haven't already. I'd researched the network posts the last time, and nearly everything I remember in my memory core is here.
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I've not. I thought it... somehow ill-advised. I suppose it's not though, is it?
[As she speaks of her memory core, he chews at his lip, for it's only now he understands just how much Nebula might hold in her... circuitry, a strange notion to compare her at all to the computers and other devices that are... machinery.]
Good. I've been thorough then. I thought we might find something to build... build on with more c-caution than... destruct...
[He can't finish it, fingers pressing hard into the table, but the gist of his comment has been made.]
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[There are risks and benefits to both strategies. But she still thinks copies are the better of the options.]
I understand... our original plan with Jim was one ultimately only based in revenge and destruction. Biding our time, learning as much as we can, it's better. [Nebula sets the papers back, closing the box for now. She'll no doubt look through them all more later.] I am not always good with having patience.
[There's too much rage in her sometimes to allow herself to wait. It's been a flaw of hers for a long time.]
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[He might certainly commiserate on that. D'Artagnan takes the box, but he doesn't place it back in the floorboards.]
I'll make a copy or two, for now, keep one in another location for myself. Leave the other with someone trustworthy who'll otherwise not be involved.
[When he finds such a person.]
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I appreciate you bringing me here, telling me, and showing me this. [Having that kind of trust in her felt good. Sure, they'd worked together before, but time had passed. It meant something to her.] Being here again, I felt somewhat untethered.
[This gave her a goal. A meaning. Something other than rage. Although that is fueling her too.]
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[It's quiet and quick, a nod as if he'd perhaps not ever considered keeping it from her, or not wishing her involvement. Rebels themselves aren't so rare, but those willing to actually do something and not resort to simply talking about it every so often amidst their swath of parties as if it an afterthought, those people are hard to come by. Those who will risk everything. D'Artagnan had almost fallen into the beginnings of that trap, but he'd escaped the cage of acceptance and he'll not look back.]
I've felt untethered for a long time now, I need this too.
[He'd told Malcolm the same thing when he'd asked to take over the Smoking Wand again, for what is he without a purpose?]
We may not prevail, not for years, but we'll not back down.