To Die At Sea


edward_icon.gif gillian_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Also Featuring:


Scene Title To Die At Sea
Synopsis Gillian arrives at the former Phoenix HQ, and she finds herself becoming the uncomfortable focus of one Doctor Edward Ray, who sees something he shouldn't have. Teo arrives in the midst of this, with a list.
Date January 14, 2009

New York Public Library

Once upon a time, the New York Public Library was one of the most important libraries in America. The system, of which this branch was the center, was among the foremost lending libraries /and/ research libraries in the world.

The bomb changed that, as it changed so much else.

By virtue of distance, the library building was not demolished entirely, like so many others north of it; however, the walls on its northern side have been badly damaged, and their stability is suspect. The interior is a shambles, tattered books strewn about the chambers and halls, many shelves pulled over. Some have even been pulled apart; piles of char in some corners suggest some of their pieces, as well as some of the books, have been used to fuel fires for people who sought shelter here in the past.

In the two years since the bomb, the library — despite being one of the icons of New York City — has been left to decay. The wind whistles through shattered windows, broken by either the blast-front or subsequent vandals, carrying dust and debris in with it. Rats, cats, and stray dogs often seek shelter within its walls, especially on cold nights. Between the fear of radiation and the lack of funds, recovery of the library is on indefinite hiatus; this place, too, has been forgotten.

The ruins of Midtown are uncomfortably quiet in the early morning hours, pre-dawn, when Gillian Childs returns to the former Phoenix headquarters, only to find that someone has been expecting her. The guards out front slip the woman a scrip of paper, a note from a Doctor Edward Ray, to meet him in the stacks in the back of the library at "any hour."

Activity at the former New York Public Library has diminished greatly since the staff of Phoenix began moving to their new consolidated headquarters. While front door watch is still in effect, only a skeletal crew of members still reside within the old and decrepit library. Among those residents, remains the hermit whom has taken up residence in the stacks, tucked away between towering cases of old and weather-damaged books.

A single light, faded and yellow glows from the open double-doors that lead into the freezing cold and unheated back offices, the air containing the same bitter nip that the outsides has, though the wind seems subdued by plastic wrapped over the floor to ceiling windows, partially boarded up. With each gust, they rise and fall like large artificial lungs.

Seated at the head of a long study table, flanked by rows of bookshelves, wheeled blackboards marked with wild equations and flow charts, and stacks of newspapers, is a mousy looking man in his thirties. Brown hair is raised up from his head, wild and in disarray like one might imagine a mad scientist's should be, quietly typing away on a laptop. Though due to the extreme cold, he doesn't dress casually, but rather in a heavy, fur-lined winter parka the color of periwinkle.

Maybe he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, maybe it's something else, but before Gillian has even rounded into the doorway, the doctor raises his head to look where she will be, light from the laptop monitor reflecting off of his circular glasses.

Someone who can predict the way things will go— it could very well be, she doesn't like the idea at all. Gillian prides herself on being unpredictable. Of course, that's what seems to get her in trouble sometimes, and why she's come by so early— with her cat in tow. Chandra is held up against her chest, shedding fur on the long man's coat that she wears. Belonged to Sylar— making it far too long for her and nearly dragging on the floor of as she approaches the stacks. She's only had access to the library for a short time. Once she's in the room, and spots the man looking right at her, she glares back for an instant, and kneels down to let Chandra go. "Don't go too far, little brat," she says to the cat, before she approaches the man. "Any hour at all? Were you going to be waiting here all fucking day? What if I didn't come in today?"

Edward's brow tenses as he looks to Gillian, then down to the ground and leans to the side out of his chair to watch Chandra run under the table, sniffing at the chair legs. "Oh, you know, it's no problem. I'm fine with cats, thanks for asking." Edward manages to say with an awkward level of sarcasm as he straightens again, letting large blue eyes focus on the dark-haired woman in front of him.

"Well, I'd still have work to do. I'd still be here." He manages a coy smile, then stands up from his chair with a scraping of the wooden legs against the marble floor. "It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance though, Miss Childs." One hand motions towards a chair at the corner of the table closest to his. "Please, please, come have a seat. There's some things I was hoping you and I could talk about?" Both of his thin brows raise quizzically as he stares at Gillian through the round lenses of his glasses, slowly moving back to his seat, scooting the chair in with a few noisy scrapes.

"As far as I know, you're not the one who had any say in whether there's cats in the library or not," Gillian says, moving to take a seat, though she kind of crosses her arms as she does, falling into the chair with a stubborn thump. She keeps the knot in the back of her mind firmly clasped down, conserving energy for the moment, and not wanting to give anything to this man, either. "So what is it you wanted to talk to me about? Apparently you wanted me to come here— or that's what Cat seems to think."

"Ah." It's a quick and clearly unpleased reaction to the comment about ownership and cats, "Well, I guess you have a point there." Edward presses a few keys on the laptop, and turns it around so that Gillian can see it. It's a black and white photograph, depicting a scarless Peter Petrelli and a much older Edward Ray seated at a poker table, where a grownup Eileen Ruskin leans on Peter's shoulders, watching the card game. "I received this photograph, among several others, in a manila folder several weeks ago. It has become my, raison d'ĂȘtre, for lack of a better term."

Edward leans back in his chair, tucking his cold hands into the front pockets of his parka. "Helena very indirectly indicated to me that you might have some knowledge on your own of who sent this package to me, and perhaps why?" He leans to the side, just enough to creak the wood of the chair. "I'd like to hear your interpretation of those events, and…" Eyes growing distant,Edward distractedly lets them wander to the table top. "Not everything Miss Chesterfield seems to think, is what is actually going on."

The woman isn't recognized, but Gillian actually stands up so she can lean closer, squinting at the picture of Peter Petrelli. Without a scar. What is she supposed to call him if he's lost the asscrack on his face? There's a long moment where she's just squinting at it. "Indirectly…" she repeats the word, finally looking away from Peter and moving to plop back into her chair. Chandra's moving to rub up against her legs now, and she doesn't try to stop him. "Was she really indirect about it, or do you just want to get the first hand account? Primary source material— that sorta thing? None of this second hand, shit?"

The folds her arm again and looks at the man, through his glasses and into his eyes. "Still technically second hand, cause I didn't go to the future with him, but I believe him— because Peter Petrelli sent me through time once too. A day in the past. I relived Halloween. So when Gabriel told me that he was sent ten years into the future, and then sent back by a Peter Petrelli who somehow survived whatever is going to kill almost all of us… I believe him. I also believe that he was sent back to try and stop it. Why else would Peter ever send back someone he hates as much as Sylar?"

Edward watches Gillian with a practices level of neutrality in his expression for most of what she says. After a short time, his eyes deviant to the laptop, followed by a gentle nod. All this while in Edward's presence, Gillian can feel the tug in the back of her mind, that urging presence of an Evolved power waiting to be amplified. "Odds are Petrelli survived by some merit of sheer luck, or through means of an antibody or antivirus. I'd imagine my chances of survival were more calculated…"

Edward leans forward, resting one elbow on the tabletop, his chin in his palm. "So this Sylar and Mister Petrelli, they're not fast friends it sounds like?" Edward turns his head as his speaks, letting his fingers brush along his cheek as he keeps his chin rested upon the heel of his palm. "Mmn…" Blue eyes downcast to the table again, before flicking up to Eileen with a startling abruptness. "I'd like to test something out, if you'd be so open to the idea."

With ominous words such as those, Edward quickly rises up from his chair, taking his hands out of his pockets as he looks Gillian up and down with studious assessment, "I've read about what you can do — What Helena informed me on the note I was sent." His head directs Gillian's attention towards a post-it note stuck to his laptop. "I'd like you to show me your power amplification. I promise," He raises one bare hand, palm up, "My power's harmless."

"They've tried to kill each other more than once," Gillian says in response to their friendship. The hand is regarded for a long moment, as she considers whether or not to listen to his request. Harmless as it may be— there's always consequences— either for them, or for her. "I tried to kill both of them once or twice myself, though, so I guess by that account, I'm hardly their friend, either." Yet she's in love with one of them, and wants to kick the second for being an idiot. And herself for the same reason.

"I'll warn you— touching people doesn't always work well for them. You can consider this a disclaimer." She reaches her hand out, as Chandra abandons her ankles for the other mans, and puts her hand on top of his, the knot unraveling. A light shines behind her eyes— a glow begins at her finger tips—

The drain of energy can be felt, even at the risk of what it might do, she doesn't attempt to stem the tide.

There are feet coming from the hall, rolling along at a labrador's swift and big-footed gait, apparently unaware that there's anything ahead inopportune to interrupt. Teo lacks extrasensory abilities, sometimes also tact, and he had coincidentally gotten into the dispensary to swap passwords with a sentry who hadn't been one of the several that ushered the augmentor in to see the hermit.

Teodoro barges in through the door.

Sees hand-holding, presumably Evolved stuff happening rather than something salacious. His expression instantly reverts to apologetic; three steps in, he starts to backpedal backward. The same distance will take him five strides in reverse: he seeks concussions less actively than he had done before.

There's a wrinkle of Edward's nose, head craning to one side as he purses his lips and then clicks his tongue. "It feels a little warm, but otherwise I don't see any reason to write home about it." Edward glances over to Teo, looking at the Sicilian as he keeps his hand holding Gillian's, a blacklight glow spreading between their fingers. "Don't you wish you knocked?" He adds with a sardonic half-smile, turning his focus back to Gillian again afterwards.

"I think perhaps if you— " Doctor Ray's breath hitches in the back of his throat, and his eyes jerk away from where Gillian is standing, even as his hand grips down on her fingers tightly. Lips parted to whisper out a hushed breath, the mathematician suddenly begins turning back and forth, as if trying to follow some fast moving object that remains unseen. "It's — " His brows contort, twist together, raise; a myriad of confused expressions cross his face. "But — But the — " His countenance slides from confusion to something resembling horror as he finally yanks his hand away from Gillian, taking a step back with a few ragged gasps.

"Well…" He strains in exasperation, "That's a lesson learned." Blue eyes focus down on his laptop, then back to Gillian. "T-thank you." He manages a smile, dishonest and otherwise devoid of explanation.

Gillian had been just about to tell him to wait for it. The draw of energy may pull from the back of her head, but it doesn't feel quite as forced until— it hits him. She's actually setting her mouth into a thin line and glancing at the man in the door. A man she doesn't recognize. Not the ten she saw naked (and the three others like him who were clothed). But then he starts to breathe in whispers, and look around at everything, and she looks back at the man, waiting until it's passing, and he yanks his hand away. The glow fades out, both from her eyes, and her hand.

She leans back into the chair and closes her eyes a moment. If anything, she looks like she could use a cup of coffee (not Earl Gray). "Gonna tell me what the fuck you got out of that?" she asks, opening her eyes, to look at the man in glasses, before she glances back at the one in the door. "And you plan to say hi or what?"

No, apparently Teo's too busy staring. Though Edward's initial query had warranted a muttered word of agreement, contrition readily available in his expression, he went silent when he stopped to watch.

The glow caught his eye, the physical conduit subject to a narrow-eyed stare, characteristically wary that something was about to explode and then he would have to go get more buckets, or the like. "Ciao." Gillian's answer is four beats belated, accompanied by a slow swivel of his regard to her. He fails to recognize her either, though the recent bulletin makes enough sense of her presence that hospitality comes before hostility. His heel bumps into the doorjamb. "Do you guys need something to drink?"

"Scotch on the rocks," Edward quickly answer to Teo before feigning a smile, "And since the bar's not open, a hot tea would be wonderful." Edward Ray is a man who will take no hesitation in allowing others to be hospitable. Though answering Teodoro's query gives him enough time to come up with a sufficiently avoidant answer for Gillian.

"Well, Miss Childs, when I figure out exactly what it is that I saw I'll let you know." He manages a hesitant smile, "But I have a pretty good feeling if I tried to explain it to you, you'd just go oh, and get rather quiet." With some levels of self-assured snideness, Edward moves to settle back into his chair as a small cat comes running out from under the table, rushing over to Teo to snake around his legs.

"So, tell me Mister Laudani, what brings you up to the frozen wastes?" A charming nickname for the corner of the building without heat. "I presume this wasn't just for you to play bartender to Miss Childs and myself?"

Chandra is nothing if not friendly. There's even a few meows as he introduces his various sides to the new man's ankles. Gillian nods, not wanting to push the topic, "Fine. But if it had anything to do with me I want to know as soon as you figure it out." Just so they're clear. She's mostly concerned about herself right now… Especially right now.

She looks back at the man, "I'd like coffee, assume you got that." If they didn't, she'd probably be looking down on whoever stocks this place with the necessary researchers drink… Of course drinking in the library itself is frowned upon, but everyone needs it… "Or, if you got it, chai. I got a taste for that in the last month or so." She actually stocked her cupboards with it.

"Nice to meet you… Lo— Lau— whatever your name was. I prefer Gillian, if you want to call me anything though. That includes you, doc."

Mister Laudani is left to wonder whether Chandra was attracted to the scent of another cat or if it was to the tiny avian prey, or if it was some other thing entirely. No way of knowing, not for him. He stoops long enough to pass the rough of his fingers over the tiny convex of the creature's scalp, pushing a physical representation of affection through plushy fur. The corner of his mouth goes up without thinning his eyes, the frail ghost of a smile. "I'll see what we have," he says, before looking up.

He straightens without evident difficulty. "I have four people who're willing to work with Phoenix, if there's anything you need them or their missiles for." Somehow, Teo manages to keep a straight face while he produces that sentence, but it doesn't look like the easiest thing for him to say. "I trust them to follow orders." Which is possibly bad news for Teo's intelligence, given Flint Deckard's name and summary is in the envelope he's pulling out of his pocket, but he has the grace to look a little worried as he crosses the floor to hand that over.

"Teo." The desk halts him at Gillian's side, and he offers a hand, still gloved from his recent return from the outdoors. His pronunciation is Italian this time, despite the fact that the vast majority of his American counterparts — Gillian's newfound allies — wind up pulling the 'e' into a long one over time. "Gillian, right?

"I hope you got the welcome wagon actual before you ended up in here." There is neither rancor nor disapproval in the glance he sends the characteristically snotty Doctor's way, a touch of humor as meaningless as it is harmless.

"Missiles?" It gets the Doctor's attention, looking right up over the top of his screen with a look of overwhelmed disbelief. His expression remains that way as he follows Teodoro's movements across the room, eagerly retrieving the envelope, shaky and cold hands plucking at the top to open as he just shakes the paperwork out into his lap. The envelope itself it discarded next to the laptop, while his full focus goes on cycling through the dossiers provided.

His brow furrows, an inscrutable look of confusion coming over his face before looking up to Teo again. "These people want to help us?" There's a lack of faith there, "They're honestly willing to follow my instructions, and not go willy-nilly off into the night with their rockets are they?" A smile ghosts at one corner of his mouth.

"Missiles…" Gillian repeats the word, a surprised tone to her voice. Is he serious about this. Missiles? Did she sign up for a war, or something? "Yeah, I'm Gillian— I got the welcome party a couple days ago— and a note when I came in this morning saying he wanted to see me in the stacks," she points a thumb at Edward, then she reaches out and takes the gloved hand, shaking it. Without tactile contact, nothing might have happened anyway, but she realizes after the fact that she hasn't knotted up her ability in the back of her head completely— She pauses for a moment, staring off at something else— making sure it's closed off. Whether there's much addition drain or not. "What exactly do you need rockets for?"

Admittedly, it would be hard for Teo to explain about all the artificially recreated motorcycle accidents, alleyway strangulations, territorial gunfights, charity, and deflowering that were involved in the forging of this trust. So— he doesn't try, although his expression flattens out momentarily and his jaw grates sideways as he makes his way through that mental arithmetic without disclosing the proofs.

Right. Abridged version, the need-to-know. "We have worked up a good bit of credibility with them," he says. "They owe us a few favors, a couple lives, and they've seen us figure out more about Volken and his fuckers than HomeSec and their friends back home put together. One of them has tried to kill Volken a couple times personally. Between them, they understand how critical this is.

"They also don't happen to know how old the co-leaders are, or that our master General of war is a physics professor. Though I described Hana as your co-coordinator." Neither rudeness nor tact. Teo sounds unadulteratedly wry. Credibility, delicately balanced on an elaborate foundation of lies of omission. Do what a terrorist's gotta do. "I don't know if the plan needs rockets or missiles, but if you do, they have them. Einliter put the specs down. They also shoot stuff, do communications.

"Welcome to Phoenix, signorina," he adds for Gillian, not entirely without irony. He grins a little, just briefly, shows a few white teeth before his attention shifts back to Doctor Ray.

Edward looks up from typing at the laptop, staring at Gillian blankly for a moment before blinking a few times, "Oh, well, I figure a few missiles will definitely make taking down that tank less of a guessing game." It's hard to tell if he's being serious, and he ducks his head back down to look at the documentation again without giving another answer. But after a few more keystrokes, Edward keeps talking, without looking directly to Gillian. "You are aware we're in the preparation phases for a war, correct?" Two keystrokes and verbal silence, and Edward's folding his hands in his lap, looking up expectantly to Gillian.

"There happens to bee a group of very organized, very dangerous, and very heavily armed men planning on killing all of us in two weeks time." There's that lingering stare again, "I take it Helena wasn't entirely upfront with you about exactly how deep we've sunk into our own particular pool of crap?"

Looking over to Teo, Edward seems remarkably pleased, laying down the dossiers that he had been holding in one hand to rest atop the envelope, now actively typing with both to fill in empty spots within the team designations to make up for their addition. "I'm impressed, Teo," A moment of informality from Edward, something he uses sparingly, "You've managed to paint us as much more than just a group of rebellious lawbreakers who happen to have the fate of the world dropped in our laps." His brows raise, still staring at the screen, then slowly his head cranes to one side to get a good look at Teo. "Well done."

"I didn't know there were tanks and missiles and stuff," Gillian says, frowning a little as she thinks more on this. "I'm still in, as long as those missiles are being pointed at the right people— and as long as my conditions are met. Just don't expect me to hop into a tank or strap a rocket launcher to my shoulder. Though I still have no idea what you're going to want me for. Holding hands with someone else until they make me pass out?" She looks back at the war general, shrugging her shoulders.

"I don't know how long I'm with you, Teo, to be honest. But I was told about the virus thing, the world ending, everyone except the lucky ten percent dying— probably painfully, hopefully fast. And I definitely don't want that to happen. I'm with you for that."

As long as she can avoid getting picked up by homeland security for— the things she keeps getting herself into.

Teo rarely responds well to scrutiny. Sometimes, he escapes by failing to really notice or respond to it at all. Magnified by his spectacles, Ray's regard is difficult to ignore, and elicits mingled shame and embarrassment in the young man subject to it: Teodoro is all too aware that he's being applauded for his ability to bullshit. Fan-fucking-tastic. He studies the wood grain of the table, hikes both shoulders into a faintly miserable shrug.

If it turns out Phoenix can't put its money where its mouth is, well. It's not like he's going to be around for anybody to yell at him, anyway.

"I appreciate having you with us, Gillian. Your ability is fucking useful. Doesn't hurt that you wouldn't prefer to bury your fingers in your ears and quiver in a corner, too. I know how all this this looks." Like Hell coming to Earth. It takes him marked effort not to stare at Edward's revised rosters, not to seize a pen and move his own name somewhere. He keeps his attention on Gillian instead, an inclination of his head, all of the sincerity and the manners the situation warrants. Hell or no.

"Actually, Gillian, I've already figured out exactly your role in this." Edward peers up with a pleased smile from the glow of the laptop's screen, casting his flesh a cerulean hue in the dark of the room. "You'll be with Helena Dean's team, now I'm not going to say exactly what their mission is yet, but your primary goal will be to augment the abilities of Helena Dean and Abigail Beauchamp." There's a pause, a knowing, thoughtful one, "And you know, anyone else who seems like it might be the right idea at the right time." He makes it seem so nonchalant, so casual, going as far as to look away from Gillian again as he returns to typing. "I trust your judgement, you seem like a sharp girl."

Looking from his screen again, Edward's focus this time is Teo. "You'll be pleased," somehow, "to know that I've put Mister Deckard on your team, given what I'm expecting your group is going to have to do, it should come in quite handy." Edward squints slightly, leaning to one side, "You do know you to pilot a boat, correct?" Oh god.

"I'd rather die than sit around and do nothing," Gillian says, a hint of bitterness in her voice as she looks in the direction of the computer screen that Edward turned her way not too long ago. Yeah, she's talking to you assface without a crack. "'sides, I've nearly died enough times the last three months. Every fucking breath of freedom is a breath earned, I say." And might as well keep earning it.

"Windy and— this Abigail person. Haven't met her, probably should before this whole thing goes down— make sure she's used to what I do so she doesn't knock herself out in a pinch."

It happens, after all… Edward just experienced what could happen when someone isn't ready for the surge of energy that Gillian can provide.

"Windy too, actually. She's only had a taste of it, and if she does what I think she does, I wouldn't want to be standing right beside her holding her hand if she can't control it." Practice… that's one thing she can do. Did it with Gabriel. She can do it with two women.

Shouldn't take His name in vain, Teo's brain heckles, but he's doing it anyway, internally. Oh God. "Always wanted to die at sea," he says in a tone of voice that betrays the fact that he had not ever seriously considered such a thing.

There is, however, a great deal of morbid — and practical — curiosity in that voice and look too. He does want to know, despite that every new thing that comes to light seems worse than the uncertainty that came before it. His eyes are on Edward, shifting in fractions of inches between the older man's eyes. "Si, I do. Or I can learn." In two weeks? Oh God. "It depends a little on the kind of boat."

A beat. He'd nearly forgotten. "I don't know if Hel told you: we spoke to Abby, and she's on-board. With an imagination going wild off paranoid theories of what it is you want her to do," he adds. Again, the curiosity deepens the knit of Teo's brow. Its intensity doesn't abate though he glances at Gillian when she speaks.

Edward switches focus, moving from his laptop to a spiral-bound notebook that he flips open, beginning to write feverishly in. "Good, good… on both accounts." His hand stops, tapping the pen impatiently on the pad of paper before it abruptly jolts back into action. "Alright — What I'm writing down here is something you and presumably Mister Deckard and Mister Wozniak are going to need to procure before the end of next week. If my estimates are right, there's a good chance that by the end of the month we're all as good as dead."

On that cheerful note, Edward rips the piece of paper out and slides it across the table towards Teo with two fingers, looking up to Gillian as he does. "I recommend you familiarize yourself with the both of them, yes. And be prepared for the unexpected; there's only so much miracle I can work at any one given time."

The piece of paper reads as follows: Speedboat. Fastest possible that can carry 15 people and light cargo.

"I don't expect a list of instructions telling me exactly what to do… I like winging it," Gillian adds, shrugging a bit, at the mathematician's rather dire estimates. And his indication that she needs to think on her feet. Don't want to die, but that's why she's casting her lot in with these guys, isn't it? Maybe the guy in the glasses shouldn't trust her to wing it at all. If only he knew, right? She stops talking though, and looks over at Teo, watching him with a tilt of her head. The hair on her forehead shifts enough to the side that the still healing wound comes visible. "You're an interesting guy," she has to admit to the Italian, though she could say the same of quite a few people she's met in the last few months. Who woke up and suddenly made the world less boring? "On sea or on land, don't care where I die, 'long as I go down giving someone who deserves it the middle finger." Or goes down swinging. Either way.

That's the sort of compliment Teo can field with grace. He smiles at the woman it came from. Marilyn Manson and death by man-o'-war nematocytes are interesting, too. He doesn't mind sharing his category with either of those things.

Yes. "Better than going with your legs in the air," he agrees. Pauses. "Though not in the sense of s—" Uhh. His brow furrows slightly, and his mouth forms and reforms one or two self-corrections, before he gives up on that with a careful clearing of his throat, cracking a fragment of a boyish grin, the only punchline he permits himself for the aborted and accidental joke.

There's world-saving to do. And— boats to shop for. Teo's fingers are on the slip of paper before his eyes are, but when they go there, his eyebrows go high. "Every fucking answer I get, there's a dozen new…" He grins, crooked, and knees himself away from the table with a quick push. "The Feds are going to want to see more of a plan than this, signor. Soon." Despite the complaint his words frame, there's an unequivocal affirmitive in the miniature salute he throws Edward with the paper caught between gloved fingers.

Can do boat. Among other things. "Hot tea, preferably chai. Otherwise, coffee for la ragazza. Talk like that, and Abby will love you," he adds for Gillian, either reassurance or simple enthusiasm for the healer, even as he sets off with a salutation to both. "Good talk. Have more," he encourages, turning back toward the door. Paper goes to pocket. He tells his head to quit spinning.

January 13th: Teacher Dear
January 13th: Try Somewhere Else
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License