​​[M] What Goes Around [Closed]

Benjamin Tolsby gets what’s been coming to him.

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Sun Apr 14, 2019 9:32 am

8th Intas, 2718
UPTOWN | AFTER DARK
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Sobbing in pain and fear, Benjamin felt the sweep of a familiar field, rolling out in a wave of Perceptive that felt so much like the D’Arthes and yet was entirely not. As recognition dawned in the mess of a galdor, the red head began his muffled yelling and struggling a new.

Rhys-fucking-Valentin.

Benjamin would know the bastard from anywhere, they’d schooled together and they’d graduated together, and he’d hated him the whole damn time. The tall farmers sprog with his filthy piercings and devil-may-care attitude had stolen everything from the violinist. He’d stolen Charity’s heart, and then had ruined it for everyone else when Damen had decided he would be in control of his daughters suitors. Then of course he’d gone and made himself some special la-te-dah Sergeant or something. Youngest in Numbrey or some garbage. Oh the special Mister Valentin. The shit-shoveler-come-Seventen. It didn’t stop there though, no. Hero of the Day swooping in to save the pianist, stealing her away yet again! Not just from himself this time, but also from Damen and the circle. It had been so satisfying to break his arm, so wonderful to hear him scream in pain. Ben had thought about it over and over, finding sick pleasure in the memories, planning his next move. It hadn’t really been a surprise when they’d found out that Rhys and Charity had abandoned the apartment above the noodle house, but there where abouts were unknown at present. Diaxio had promised Damen all she needed was time, and she would find them. Benjamin had all the time in the world. So he’d been waiting. Remembering. And waiting.

The yelling dissolved into laughter, and the galdor flexed his field. He was in agony, and he couldn’t cast, but fuck Rhys Valentin and his goon. Rage and something dangerous simmered in the taller blonde’s field, but Benjamin didn’t care, it only served to fuel his laughter because he knew now what was happening. All the broken knee’s and ankles were worth it, because Rhys Valentin had finally lost. Ben had dug in deep where it hurt, where it really really hit home, and for once it wasn’t the Hero’s turn. For once, Ben had been the winner. He’d nearly had something that the ersehole thought only belonged to him, had nearly delved into that which Rhys seemed to hold so dear. He’d tainted the Seventen’s belongings like a banderwolf marking its territory.

How terribly funny.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Benjamin’s chuckles turned into groans as he was shoved out of the door, yelping as he hit the cold stones and biting down on the gag. Barely given time to blink away the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him at the pain in his shattered bones, the galdor cried out in protest as his shoulder sockets over stretched and nearly popped. Struggling to support himself on one foot, the auburn man was dragged and thrown again with contempt to the floor. He was manhandled to sitting up, bones crunching together and bile rising again. The smell of his own bodily fluids was a rank reminder of what little he would be able to do against the tide, and clenching his hands Benjamin fought back the nausea as the bag was removed from his head. Blinking rapidly, he focused on the figures before him. Two men. One was Rhys’ it was clear from his field, the other however was an unknown. Human maybe, lacking a field. His eyes watched with helpless frustration as the expensive violin was thrown to the floor within its case, a pain of a different sort welling in the man. The instrument was his livelyhood, and had cost a good few concords. His eyes followed the masked man with a glare as they moved to drag the large heavy door of the warehouse closed, before turning back to Rhys. He watched as the taller man removed the mask, almost with a reverent sort of slowness, breathing heavily behind his gag and shaking his head. As the other man spoke, Ben watched the still masked figure move to his violin, unclasping the latches. He yelled something, pointless behind the fabric, watching as clumsy hands lifted his beautiful string instrument and pulled the bow across it.

Alioe have mercy, that was horrible.

Snapping back to Rhys, the red head bend his good leg, trying to move back as the other spoke of showing him everything that had transpired since the beating. Monite wove through the air, mona drawing in and contained by a prodigum created carefully for this moment. Planned just for this. Benjamin began to roll, freezing in place as the spell caught him in place, paralyzed by magic. His eyes glazed over as though his brain had turned off, but he was there. Stuck inside the prison of Rhys’ shared connection.

Murky green eyes widened, and welled with tears as Gale played the death throws of his violin’s last sonnet, and it was almost all that anyone would see of the agony that was playing out within him. His breathing was broken, catching and huffing, wheezing and fast. Sweat beaded on his skin and his nostrils flared. His field shattered over and over, broken and pulsing in mindless pain. Gurgling sounds escaped his throat finally, tendons tense as Rhys remembered cracking ribs and slowly bending bones. The galdor’s gaze wavered, and his field felt loose. Consciousness was only a threadbare thing slipping from his grasp.

At least unconscious he wouldn’t be able to feel anymore.

word count: 985

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Rhys Valentin
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Tue Apr 16, 2019 11:21 am

Vienda, O Vienda
after dark on the 8th of Intas, 2719
Rhys enjoyed the recognition that flooded Benjamin's features as he removed the mask, smirking with satisfaction as the galdor bastard struggled against his gag with an obvious desire to say meaningless words in his direction. Gale had discovered the ersehole musician's violin, but the suspended officer chose not to allow himself the distraction of glancing in his sister's direction.

Once he sat and began his spellwork, he was far too lost in the need to concentrate to entirely hear the horrid sound produced, the smith having discovered their own avenue of torturing the unfortunate Tolsby all on their own. He could see the panic grip Ben tightly at his first syllables of Monite, the urge to crawl away stifled quickly by paralysis. Rhys hadn't experimented with a prodigium since Brunnhold, but the rush of amplified magical power was far superior to any sensation of adrenaline. It would have been intoxicating had he not felt so strongly his sense of purpose. He understood how others could grow dependent on such a feeling, how magic for magic's sake could be an addiction all its own.

But this was justice.

As much as he didn't want to crawl inside Benjamin's mind, there was no escaping the surface thoughts once his Perceptive magic had connected them. It was nauseating, it churned his stomach and fueled his vindictive anger. He curled fingers into the dirt beneath him to keep from getting lost in his own emotions, to stay focused, to make sure his conversation with the mona was not utterly derailed or turned sour by all that burned beneath bones that had been knit back together in the cavity of his chest.

He heard the fatal noises of the toffin's violin, but he was far to lost in Achtus, bleeding on cobblestones in his memory to even react or let the rather effective cruelty register in his thoughts.

Rhys shared everything. Too much. Every last snapping, crackling sound and every lingering, painful flare of a nerve.

He relived it in vivid detail, unaware of tears that welled in his own eyes at the remembering of that day, that trailed down his cheeks from the depths of his near-meditative state of casting. Blue eyes narrowed, sharp like carved crystal, watching the auburn-haired galdor's face contort in agony, feeling the distress that twisted his field, sensing the tumultuous thoughts such projected pain had on the sorry-ersed piece of chroveshit before him,

"No, you don't—" The tall Sergeant hissed, leaning to curl gloved fingers into the gag and yank it downward, allowing Benjamin some much-needed air as he seemed so close to fainting. He didn't drop his concentration on the spell that kept the man immobilized, tempting as it was to scuffle with the thing, to bruise his knuckles on such soft flesh. The proximity would have been nauseating had he been capable of registering the sights and scents that assaulted his hyper-focused attention, but the young Valentin was so hell-bent on this moment that he was practically unshakable, "—we're not done here, ersehole. Was that too much for you—aren't you a real man? I survived it all, so don't you go passing out over a little taste of the reality."

His other hand snatched for the galdor's coat and held him up, Rhys on his knees in front of him, the amplification of his glamour within the prodigium oppressively fearsome. Their thoughts still tangled, his vehemence was a roving hatcher. It felt like starvation and the tone of the blond not-galdor's voice felt as though he was ready to gnaw the marrow from Benjamin Tolsby's bones.

He probably was.

As much as he'd promised himself that he was not working, that he was off the books, that this would not interfere with his professional life, he couldn't entirely escape who he was, what he'd become in the Seventen. His desire for justice extended beyond personal revenge and reached further, Rhys aware that the drugs that had captured Charity's life were, in fact, ruining countless others. His vigilante desires were still motivated by a strange sense of helping more than just himself and those he loved,

"You're a tool. This much I could tell that day. This much I've known since you were just another spoiled brat in a Brunnhold uniform all those years ago. You've always been a fucking lapdog, licking at the heels of those smarter or stronger than yourself. I'll give you one chance to be a man—something you've clearly never been in your life—and share some names of your drug-pushing galdorkind compatriots with me other than the two I know. Locations. Distributions. Spill what you know and hear this—I haven't even shared the agony of my recovery yet just in case that whole experience wasn't quite enough for you."

The young Valentin taunted him with memories of the disgusting sensation of bones knitting back together, of needles and stitches, of days languishing in bed without any pain mediation.

"One chance, Benjamin."

Rhys didn't offer him redemption. There was no room for that in his mind, not for all the wrong the twisted creature had committed against his wife and not for all the pain he'd caused them both. He held no interest in forgiveness. Just an insatiable need for seeing this whole circle of wrongs burn to the ground one fire at a time until he was out of matches.

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word count: 982
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Gale
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Wed Apr 24, 2019 5:37 am

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Somewhere | getting dark
08 Intas 2719
Gale sighed. The neck of the violin lay splintered at their, the strings twisting and knotted. The body was still rocking gently as it came to a stop, the dulled echoed tones grinding against their hearing. The inside was a lot plainer than the exterior, but the wood was still smoothed to a fine finish – the grain exposed and free from the heavy lacquer that otherwise covered it. It was nudged with a gloved digit, the eyes slipping to the felt inlay of the case, the small cloth and the faint residue of white resin that traced its surface. Prodding inside one of the smaller compartments they found the hard lump of resin that had been frequently used for the maintaining of the instrument.

How?

Gale did not know. But it was firm to the touch and gave an odd sense of tactile pleasure. Thumb rubbing over one of the corners, they crouched and silently watched the show; if it could even be called that. Despite the change in breathing and consciousness there appeared to be little going on. Whatever performance was happening was happening at a level beyond Gale’s comprehension.

The fingers flexed, moved and pulled out the firearm from its spot. Cold metal in their grasp, mechanism theorised but yet to be tested. The shoulders hunched in, green eyes flickering up from behind the rim of the mask. They could feel the beginnings of icy thoughts coming in, prodding and poking for a way in. What would the resistance do?

Here they were, staring upon the back of a Seventen – origins be dammed – using his magic for his own personal gain. Sure, it could be dressed up as serving another or dealing out some form of justice to all the lives ruined. It was words for the masses. But at the root of it all it was for his benefit to nurse his own ego, spurred on only because it had affected him personally. Their hand tilted the hefty gun in their grasp. He may have been a Wick by blood, but at heart he was still a Galdor. That would never change and it would be foolish to think he was capable of otherwise.

Gale thumbed the hammer of the firearm and released another deep sigh.

Had Benjamin tried to say something when they went for the violin? Had it caused him distress? Not that it probably mattered too much. Things like that could be replaced with time and currency. Still did not make it any less of annoyance. The thumb pulled the hammer back, then eased it forward in again.

Click. Click. Click.

The arm stretched out, eyes looking down the barrel and to the back of Rhys skull. He was still a good two dozen feet away, but how easy would it have been to squeeze that trigger? Remove a Sergeant of the Seventen – and a hapless citizen who had a poor case of circumstance. No one would know it was them, no one knew their face or association. Sure, they may have been their brother – but beyond a smattering of occurrences they held no real relationship beyond his charity. It was almost too easy, more so with him so consumed with whatever he was currently probing into with his snarls.

Another sigh.

Click.

The firearm was lowered.

Chin tucked into the palm of their hand they watched, their own thoughts circulating around. Sooner this was done, the sooner they could go back to their routine.

“Aye, let me know when ye want his fingers taken. Gettin’ a wee bit bored ‘ere.”

“And you,” the firearm gestured in the general direction of the prey, “I’d do as he says. Else you’ll get worse than a wee bit of pain. And trust me, ain’t pain from me that ye want.”
word count: 644
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Wed May 01, 2019 9:28 am

8th Intas, 2718
UPTOWN | AFTER DARK
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As the gag was pulled away, Benjamin gasped for air, coughing up stale vomit and sucking in clean oxygen with the desperation of a dying man. His eyes glared at Rhys, spitting out blood and bile, gritting his teeth against a cry of pain as the tall man grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him roughly forward onto his knees.

“You’ll pay for that you fucking bastard.” He snarled, looking at Gale with a filthy face and swollen features, arrogant even now. Even now somewhere in the depths of his ego driven mind Benjamin Tolsby believed that he would come out on top. Someone would find him, would rescue him. Damen wouldn’t dare let him die, and Xi would surely notice him missing. Soon, soon enough these two erseholes would get their come uppance, and he would jump on their clocking chests till their hearts exploded.

“Go on then. Shoot! You think a bit more pain is going to matter? You’ve already shattered my fucking knee and destroyed my ankle. You’ll want to shoot me because when I’m free I’m going to fucking melt your stupid metal mask and make you drink it.” The galdor yelled, head lolling forward for a moment before jerking up again.

Swaying on his knees, Benjamin swung his gaze back to Rhys, looking into his face as the disgraced Seventen and laughing softly as the man made demands. They were demands of the scared and desperate. Demands from a galdor who couldn’t even do his own dirty work. Grinding his teeth together, the red head couldn’t stop the sound of pain that tore from the back of his throat, sounding more animal than man, spittle flying from his lips.

“F—F—F…” He struggled against the words wanting to come out, letting loose a loud scream and panting with the effort of staying lucid. Looking up between sweat stained loose locks, Benjamin spat.

“Fuck. You.” He huffed with effort, field wavering around him but coming together like an off center piece of wet pottery. The thing about Perceptive magic was that it required a connection of minds, a linking of brainwaves, an entwining pathway that could both send and receive physical and mental sensations. It could be a wickedly wonderful thing to experiment with when alone with that special someone. Or, it could just be wicked.

“I’ll show you…what a man is.” The red haired musician growled, keeping his gaze on the man before him as he dragged up the memories of his night in Rhys Valentin’s home. Vivid memories, from his own point of view. Of breaking into the house, making his way with casual ease through the lounge and into the hallway. Of digging through the wardrobes and caressing delicate clothing, bringing it to his face to inhale deeply. Hearing the door creak, and the feminine voice of his prey echoing in the empty home. Of hands around a pale throat and squeezing, watching eyes bulge and face redden. Of tearing at clothing and bruising of skin.

“You see? A man takes what he wants. He controls, and demands, and gets his way. He doesn’t grovel or weep like some human guttertumble. You didn’t even have the balls to come after me on your own. Had some fucking masked lackey take on the heavy lifting whilst you played professor.” If Rhys took the time to notice, if Gale was paying attention to such things, both of them would feel the rapidly solidifying collection of Ben’s field. The galdor laughed harshly.

“When they find out you got me, both of you clocking erses are going to be begging for death. And I’m going to make sure you don’t get it. I’m going to make sure you suffer for the rest of your fucking lives.” Inhaling sharply, the sorcerer began to make a sound, and one could put money on it being monite if they let it become more than just the start of a syllable.

word count: 708
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Rhys Valentin
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Wed May 01, 2019 11:23 am

Vienda, O Vienda
after dark on the 8th of Intas, 2719
He had let his training take over, Rhys slipping into a much tamer, more optimistic officer of Anaxi law enforcement despite the total lack of respect for any of his oaths that had brought him into this moment.

It was a mistake he would forever regret and never forget.

The tall blond didn't hear a word: not the retort, not the disgusting posturing speech, not the wishful thinking as it all poured so vehemently from Benjamin's lips. The ersehole belittled the not-galdor, belittled his sister, and belittled his own self with his deplorable excuses for control, authority, and pleasure. He didn't hear any sound in the room above the roar of his pulse and the rumbling thunder of what could best be described as the fierce rush of untamed and unplanned for rage as it consumed him in the single breath it took to experience everything he should never have seen, should never have felt, and should never have allowed.

Weakness. Revelation. Helplessness. Guilt. Revulsion. Horror. Anger.

He'd felt these things before. He'd felt them all for months. But not like this. Not in their most pure, unfiltered form. At least, he hadn't thought he could feel anything as sharply as he felt everything right now.

Rhys had let Benjamin talk too much, given the conceited ersehole far more freedom than he ever should have, and in their mingled Perceptions under the concentration of mona gathered thickly within his plot, he felt the shifting of the tide. The galdor before him was gathering his field. He felt inklings of the other man's—no, the word was too generous for the galdor and possibly too generous even for himself—the other monster's intentions in that magically-connected, very animal part of their existences.

The Sergeant was moving before the bastard had finished speaking, really.

The man inhaled. His tongue reached the back of his teeth, syllables of Monite there in his throat, there in their tangled perceptions.

One gloved hand shot out, fingers stiff. The motion was instinctual unapologetic aggression: a merciless crushing blow to Benjamin's throat, fingertips forcefully destroying his larynx mid-cast, a lightning-quick blow to the galdor's esophagus, cutting off breath and words without a moment of concern for whether there would be backlash, for whether there had been enough of a spell for a brail. He wanted to hear the gurgling, gasping noises of pain and slow suffocation with a malicious kind of hunger that would have surprised him had he been capable of objective thought at all.

As a Seventen officer known for his physical prowess, the not-galdor followed the swift motion of his hand with his entire body, leaping toward the bound, already broken thing who was in front of him like a hatcher emerging from the mist in the West. A bony knee or booted foot would be sure to lodge itself like a sledgehammer into Benjamin's groin as the blond bowled him over, hand that had been at his throat curling fingers into flesh in a self-righteous mockery of the visions the wick should never have been privy to. Rhys shoved the ersehole backwards onto the ground, making sure to smash his head against the dirty concrete, making sure to end up on top of him, pinning him with his free hand, his superior weight, and his knees with all the skill of a creature too fucking well trained in combat for anyone's well being.

"No one will ever find you." He promised softly, the tarnished officer so far outside of the self he knew, the self he'd worn like another green-dyed uniform for so damn long.

There was no sense of triumph in looking down at the unfortunate, disgusting excuse for a galdor beneath him. Whatever illusion of vindictive justice Rhys had painted for himself when planning this misadventure from the confines of his bed, broken and in stitches, all of it had been burned away by the molten reality of his personal needs, the tall blond not currently capable of understanding that he would look back on this moment with a keen awareness that there had never been any overarching guise of social benefit to this very raw form of vengeance, clumsy and full of unpracticed mistakes on Rhys' amateur vigilante part as it had been.

There was no doubt in the seething dark miasma of his mind, twisted and blended by Perceptive magic as it was now, that Benjamin Tolsby deserved a punishment all of proper, biased, completely ignorant Anaxi law would never serve to him because of his status, because of his privilege, because of his protection by the organization that the Sergeant above him had sworn oaths to. There was no questioning that he would never experience the reality he deserved for his crimes—both personal against the Valentin couple and public against the populace at large through the pandering of King's Crop and gods only knew what else—

"Godsdamnit."

Perhaps in the auburn-haired bastard's dark eyes, Rhys accidentally caught a glimpse of his own face—a face twisted by hurt and fury, a face that couldn't possibly be the one he knew—and there for a rapid heartbeat, the Sergeant faltered. Fingers tightened in frustration, angst-coiled body shifted for the eagerness for destruction felt like a blade against the wick's own heart—

—and just like that, self awareness blossomed, full of thorns, sharp and cruel.

He wasn't better.

He was worse.
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Gale
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Wed May 15, 2019 9:38 am

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Somewhere | getting dark
08 Intas 2719
Gale hated bullies, of people who forced and pushed their agenda onto others. The thumb pulled back the hammer of the firearm, the expressionless mask focusing upon the spitting curses of Benjamin. He was being a model member of society. An upstanding figure of Galdor kind who was ensuring his place in the world was maintained above his betters.

Click.

They did not need to think too closely on the context, the words were enough. They did not need the added images of whatever Rhys was contending with. Up, the men were shifting down in their wrestling and struggling becoming more animated. Something Gale could respond to. Yet even they were acutely aware of the sensation that came, that hum that became thick and tense. Hairs rising, the idiot had let the prey talk too much.

And with that the cornered rat hissed and attempted to bite.

There was a time when the smith was a lot more of a blunt and base creature than they normally were. It was points like this that they acted more on simple need. As the hairs rose, the internal shift of lingering upon the cusp sent them bursting into action. The last time such happened it was the riots. The last time it happened Rhys was there. And all the secrets and whispers were planted behind the dull ringing of gunshots.

Upon their toes the smith was darting towards the target, large strides as Rhys struck out at the Galdor. The free left hand came forward, planting and pulling upon the shoulder of their brother. An attempt to jerk him back and away as he stumbled and faltered. Gale was not allowed such a luxury.

Faltering resulted in mistakes.

And the Artful Gunner had no time for mistakes.

Above the right hand came swinging round, the green eyes burning brightly from the darkness of the mask. Silent, the barrel pointed over the skull of Benjamin. Foot slammed down, bracing as aim was taken.

“You first.”

Gale pulled the trigger.

Shot
@Crosspatch: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Uh-oh! Misfire! What happens?
@Crosspatch: 1d4 = (1) = 1
Case head separation

And it clicked hollowly in the warehouse.

“Oh for fucks sake.”

Staring down upon the man, the firearm then back to the man Gale withdrew it. Fingers found the pin, barrel tipping back to let the culprit slip out. The cartridge had split the percussion cap spinning as it came free. Currently it was an unimportant piece of information, something to be dealt with later. It landed with a clink on the floor. Pin slammed back in, the firearm was promptly flipped the piece in their grasp. They were not going to spare him due to a mechanical inconvenience. Barrel in hand they brought the butt of the gun down upon the face of the Galdor. Blunt force was the call for this night, with Gale grimacing in annoyance behind the metal mask. A different form of frustration coming out.

For every slight against them.

For every threat.

For every life lauded over.

For every time they were pushed down beneath the boot.

For being nothing more than cattle in their eyes.

And for his stupid perfect teeth and smile.

It was a different rage that was allowed to creep out – a different flavour to the one Rhys chased. One steeped in an upbringing of oppression. Back and forth, he became an anvil to the alternative hammer. But the strikes did not bring the satisfaction they craved.

In the meanwhile the hand fumbled about in the pocket. A swift kick to the ribs, a new cartridge was twirled in the fingers. The pin was popped again, chest rising and falling as it was reloaded. Barrel slammed up, pin put in. A low grumble of annoyance, it came round once more. Hammer back, eyes burning at him with a different kind of fury this time. Left hand moved to push Rhys away again – barely aware he was there in the midst of their blunt work trauma. The trigger was squeezed.

Shot
@Crosspatch: 1d6 = (2) = 2
Stuff happens!

A loud crack of noise rumbled from the barrel, arm jerking back as the force raced down the barrel. The shot blasted forward, the explosion of noise ringing in the ears of Gale. Sound bouncing off the walls, they swayed as they steadied themselves – scars pulling and twitching. Something ached, the buzzing whine filling their senses as they looked upon the spluttering form of Benjamin Tolsby. If something was said Gale did not hear it. Instead the cold chill begun to flicker into their spine. Throat tightening, the rest of them stuck in their stare of the destruction.
word count: 783
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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