BCH #013: EVENT - The Tenth Sparrow
The Tenth Sparrow
Summary: Stavrian and Karthasi give Niree Tuata a small measure of peace.
Date: 12 Feb 2041 AE
Related Logs: A Tangled Web, A Sea Without a Shore, Best Get to Work, and Fly
Karthasi Stavrian Polaris 


Fifteen minutes past twenty-three hours and the brig is quiet, guarded only by the two unfortunate soldiers who drew short straws in a squad-wide pick-off for duty. The rest of Baker Squad is deployed throughout deck eleven, monitoring the slow progress of the engineering team now going through all the nearby airlocks with tools and evidence bags in hand; these two, on the other hand, are lounging about in the Security Hub itself, trading off fifteen-minute watches so the other can sit for a while and munch on chips. After all, it's not as if their prisoner poses any physical threat to the ship — for indeed, the small young woman in the cell behind them hasn't done much save pray, sleep, and — thankfully — eat.

It's the middle of these things that Tuata's now doing, or at least some realistic facsimile thereof. There's been hardly a peep from the darkened room for the past two hours — not the chewing of food, not the sipping of water, not even the low and plaintive drone of a hymn to the Lords. Her body rises and falls in time to her breathing, slow and steady as she goes.

It's not too long since she first stopped by the brig to drop off a request to visit the prisoner when the memorandum was dropped off at her office giving her the approval for a visit. And so, leaving her books behind, she ascends through the decks of the ship and appears on the threshold of the security hub, holding the folded memo between two fingers like some passport she might need to present on the way in, eyebeams taking a swift scan of the place before she steps over and in, right foot first, then left, cautious, meticulous, then, back straight, she approaches the guard sitting and snacking. "Ah— hello. I'm Sister Karthasi?" she almost asks him, pressing her thumb to the fold of the paper and holding the half-opened memorandum down toward him in a gesture of 'I'm allowed to be here, honest.' The details of her permissions are all enumerated thereon.

Since Sickbay was alerted to Tuata's potential risk to herself, several doctors have rotated up to the brig to have a look at her and record their impressions of her well-being as numbers on their charts. It's a different face that comes up for this shift however, in the olive and red armbands of a medic. Stavrian brought a small thermos along with him, fingers wrapped around the handle and letting it dangle as his side as he steps into the security hub just after Greje. Unsurprised to see the chaplain, he gives her a respectful nod. "Sister." And then to the guard, "Lieutenant Stavrian, from Sickbay."

The seated Marine glances down at the paper before lifting it from the woman's fingers, pressing it open on his table while his heavily-armed comrade looms ominously in the corridor. A brief click of his tongue instructs said comrade to lighten up on said looming — for indeed, as the priestess implies, everything does check out. "Think she's asleep, sirs," the man advises, wiping salt-and-vinegar on his blacks as he reaches for his keys. Pause.

"But I'm sure she'll be glad to see you, Sister." Green eyes linger on the priestess' figure just a little longer than necessary: undisguised suspicion mixed with the unspoken admission that, yeah, okay, he'd hit it. It's gone as soon as the door swings open, revealing two empty chairs and a few trays of food stacked neatly underneath the cot. "She's all yours. Oh, and one other thing — keep the lights off: she'll freak out less." Then, back to his chips he goes, doing his best to pretend like he's not listening in on whatever conversation may ensue.

Karthasi seems to pick up rather on the suspicion than the admiration, and she draws herself up just a little straighter than previously, one arm settling across her abdomen in a subtly distancing, protective gesture while her other hand looms close to the guard, fingers poised to take the pass she'd handed over. "I… hope that I will be able to bring her some comfort in this crisis," she replies, a hint of doubt in her voice, as if she didn't quite know what the fellow was driving at with that statement. "Hello, Jesse," she goes on, as the medic comes to join her at the checkpoint, the nerves not quite gone from her voice, even if she endeavors to sound casual. She looks toward the door, then, and back to the guard, "Is there anything I may offer to bring to her? Sacred texts, toiletries, comfort items?" she asks, just making sure all her bases are covered before going in. "If she requests rites, will I be able to make arrangements to join her in her cell for them?"

Stavrian lifts the thermos, letting the guard see what he's holding there at his side. Guards can be twitchy frakkers. "I've brought her some stone flower tea." Which…gods only know what that is, exactly. The bits of metal wound into the soma braid at his wrist glint a little in the security hub lighting. "Thermos and cup, nothing sharp. I've a few medical instruments in my pockets." Which are closed, for the time being. His blue eyes flicker to Greje and then back to the guards, patient as he waits for them to finish their negotiations.

"Nobody's ever brought me tea," says the standing guard. "Maybe that means I should try to blow up the godsdamned ship. I mean — " The homely man only now realizes the nature of his audience, and he's more than a little abashed. "Sorry, Sister."

As for the 'negotiation'? "Up to me, only comfort she deserves is the sweet sweet love of an airlock." The lance corporal tilts back his head so he can pour into his mouth the last few crumbs still clinging to his bag. "But if you think I'm about to open the Fleet up to another anti-discrimination lawsuit from those frakking free speech wonks — " The rest of the sentence is swallowed in a snort; plain red plastic is balled up and chucked into the trash bin nearby. "In other words, sir, all this is Above My Rating." Spoken just like that, with capital letters. "File a request. We'll get to it and let you know."

Karthasi is quiet a moment, eyes turning toward the standing guard at his apology, only giving him an unconcerned nod of her head by way of forgiveness, if with a sort of wary look in her eye. Blow up the ship? To the other, "Alright," she assents to his suggestion, "Thank you, Lance Corporal," she adds, since there's no call not to be polite. Another look aside to Jesse, then to the door, "Did you wish to see her first, Jesse?" she asks, anxious not to step on the privacy between a doctor and his patient.

"It's a rehydration agent," Stavrian informs the guard, patiently. "If your COs make you cry so hard that -you- happen to become dehydrated, I'll bring you some too, hmm?" The comments to Greje are left between her and the guard as he looks at the priestling. "That's up to her. She can waive the right if she chooses to. Knowing the Gemenese it may be easier for me to work with her with a religious authority in the room."

"Zing," says the seated Marine, slinging a rubber band at his counterpart with only half-hearted enthusiasm. Somebody wishes he was on patrol in Main Engineering. "You two figure it out. We'll be here if she — oh, I don't know, turns into a panther or something, and then my man over there'll take over." Bitter, much?

And the door? It's still ajar, and all the talking has managed to wake the girl from whatever flights of fancy had come to her in dreams. "Visitors," she murmurs, her voice soft and musical. "It is a good time for this."

"Very well," Greje answers. "I'll go with you; I can withdraw if she desires." Greje seems deferent to Jesse in this matter; regardless of rank, in the grander hierarchy his job takes precedence, temporally if not by importance. Priests are typically called in only after the Doctors are finished, one way or the other. And so she drops her arms to her sides and steps to the door, opening it further and stepping through into the brig, proper, looking down toward the cell and then back to the door to make sure it's remaining open for Jesse to come through, as well. "Hello," she begins, voice mild, moderate as always. "I'm Sister Karthasi," she introduces herself, "And this is Lieutenant Stavrian; he's here to make sure you're quite well. Do you mind if I remain, as well?" she asks the young woman gently.

Stavrian steps in after Greje, giving the priestess her space by moving to one side where the prisoner can see him clearly. "Miss Tuata." The Sagittarian's tone is neutral as he uses her name for a greeting. As Karthasi secures her permission to stay in the room, his blue eyes flicker over the dark-skinned young woman's face.

Niree Tuata is dark of skin and somber of manner, but only the latter is really evident at the moment, so insistent and pervasive is the darkness of her cell. "Mister Stavrian. Sister Karthasi." Only one of the pair gets a title, the speaking of which causes the woman to roll over onto her side, propped up on her left elbow while her right hand makes a sign of welcome. "May the Lords regard you with favor." Her greeting, at least, is extended to both. "But I am not sure what you will learn this night that your doctors of the body have not learned in nights past — for I am, indeed, already quite well."

Karthasi casts a brief look to the chairs, but, finding them a little distant in this darkness, she instead moves to the further side of the cell, giving Jesse room to come closer without getting too close, then she settles herself down onto her knees in one smooth, practiced motion, coming to something closer to eye level with the woman, crossing her ankles behind her and perching on her topmost heel, hands settled on her legs in front of her. "And may they look favorably upon you, Miss Tuata," she returns the greeting. "We were worried," she explains the presence of the medic, not accusing, but bringing the topic out into the open, "We were told that you were fasting," she places the report delicately upon the table for the woman to confirm or deny. "Fasting can be as taxing to the body as it is cleansing to the spirit."

'Mister' being the only civilian title that Stavrian has, he's unbothered by it. "May they guide your path," is his own reply to Tuata's religious greeting - a particularly Sagittarian response to that call. "I'm not here to chase down problem by problem and fix them, Miss. Only to be sure the whole stays balanced." Greje hits the nail with the fasting comment, and he steps forward to sit and put the thermos down nearby. Not moving to touch her yet.

The returned benedictions are accepted with a grateful nod. "It is cleansing to the spirit because it taxes the body, Sister Karthasi." The equally mild correction from Niree is accompanied by a faint sigh. "And it is done not because it is easy but because it is difficult — but no matter. I have been eating such food as Mister Barclay has provided, and he is a man to whom I owe many thanks." Her head nods at the trays arrayed below her cot, on the topmost of which is visible the peels of three oranges and a single yellow banana. Her smile is sweet, almost sad, her white teeth flashing briefly in the dark. "If I may ask a favor of you, Mister Stavrian?"

"Indeed," Greje replies, clipped Caprican tones retaining their omnipresent gentleness, "And the final cleansing of the soul, it is said, is the complete dissolution of it from the flesh. Thus the deceased attain their share of what is divine and eternal," she goes on, eyes, having adjusted to the dark, focusing on the woman, or what she can see of her. She leaves the comment there, seeing whether it will elicit any positive or negative reaction, and otherwise doesn't ask further, for now, letting the woman ask her favor of the medic.

Stavrian's eyes have adjusted to the dimmer light, widened black pupils drowning out some of the vivid blue rings around them. He does note the fruit peels with a glance, nodding to that with some small measure of approval. His eyes flicker to Greje as she speaks, then back to Tuata. "What can I do for you?"

"Thus indeed have the Lords of Kobol spoken, Sister Karthasi." Tuata's tone is informed by a curious sort of gravity; the words aren't so much spoken as intoned in that sing-song rhythm that comes so naturally to her. Her eyes flutter shut as she dabs her forehead with the back of her palm, sweeping beads of sweat into her raven-black hair. "And from you, Mister Stavrian, I wish only this: that I remain free from the mercies of the God's noble serpent for a few minutes longer. I am no rod, and I desire no snake to wind about me in — in an hour like this." Perspiration gathers in the hollow of her throat, wiped away by the blanket into which she now slips. Arms fold neatly over her chest, bare skin prickling in the cell's cool air.

Karthasi keeps her posture rigid at the tone that answers back to her statement, lowering her chin toward her chest. "They have," she assents, "But remember too that that which takes its part of immortality dies away from this world. Becomes fixed. Forever. When we are dissolved into immortality, we become the sum total of all that we have done, and no longer have the power which belongs to men, and not to Gods: to change the balance of the world, something which Zeus himself is unable to do, but which we, through our mortality, bear the free will to accomplish, working in tandem with fate," she gives the flip side of the argument. "The Lords always are. But we are the only ones who come into being," she makes what sounds to her to be an important theologrammatical distinction, then, pausing. "Can you tell me what it is of which you so desire to be cleansed? There are other routes of expiation. Perhaps I will be able to help you."

Stavrian is quiet a moment as he weighs her request. Finally, the agreement, which bears no obvious offense at how she referred to him: "A few minutes longer, Miss." He nods to the thermos, though. "May I give you some pashli tea in the meantime?" Pashli, which he'd translated as 'stone flower' outside but whose real name the religious would know quite well. Question asked, he's quiet to let Greje steer.

"You may." Spoken almost regally, though the affectation fades as quickly as it comes. "And — in tandem with Fate?" There's that secret smile once again, lighting youthful features as ever-moving fingers stroke the damp corner of her blanket. "I wonder, Sister Karthasi, if you have heard of the arrow which never catches up. It is a parable that was told to me by my Temple Mother when I was a girl, and it goes like so: the Lord Apollo fires an arrow from his silver bow, and then fires another in pursuit of the first. But so synchronically do they fly that the latter can never meet the former though it may pursue it 'til the end of the world." Niree chuckles lowly. "The doom of Man is to chase Fate wherever she may go, for we are all missiles of Apollo Chrysaor."

"That parable presumes that the world has no end; for surely were there one the first arrow would eventually reach it and allow the other to catch up," Greje points out, smiling just a little bit, herself, as the debate over apeiron is always an amusing one. "And in any case, the synchronization of the arrows has as much of the influence of the second arrow upon the first as the first upon the second," she notes, "Both fired from the same hand, cast — as it were — in the same mold. Being so caught up in one another, who is to say that fate isn't the one chasing us? After all, were the guards here to release you today, that would certainly have been fated; but if they decide to keep you again tonight, then that, certainly, was fated as well. And if we sit passive-by and wait for fate to take its own mind, why — nothing would happen whatsoever. Which, too, must certainly happen in accordance with fate." This is the problem with Caprican Academics. As well-meaning as they might be, they can get distracted by shiny bits of theological interpretation, and go chasing after them like a dog after a stick.

There are some in the medical field that stand by a notion of the doctor as servant, rather than master. Stavrian's exchange with Tuata, in that light, is more normal than some might think. As the other two talk he pours out some of the strong tea into the thermos cap, eyes down and not interjecting, but most certainly listening. He stands up and moves over to Tuata's bedside, crouching down so he doesn't risk spilling the tea as it's handed over.

Tuata drinks with surpassing reverence, though it takes her eyes a moment to find the cup in the darkness. Trembling hands brush against the medic's as she takes the cup, her fingers slick with sweat; it's a wonder she doesn't drop the mug entirely as heat floods through her body. The cup is handed back with a contented little shudder — and then, only then, does she look back to the priestess, faint disapproval etched into her child-like features.

"Perhaps you are right," she murmurs, though her tone suggests that she means precisely the opposite. "But tonight you speak to Niree of Gemenon, whose pursuit — or pursuing — shall soon be over." Dark eyes glance over at the Marines outside before returning to the priestess. "So let us play another game with stories and words, Sister Karthasi, for though you may not agree, it is for you to hear what dreams I have had — and in such hearing divine my purpose and the Gods'."

Dream interpretation. Familiar enough territory, if by no means a specialization of the Priestling. She lets her back settle into a less rigid posture, leaning just a little bit forward, receptive. "Dreams may come through either gate," she murmurs a quiet reminder, a reference to the Gate of True Dreams and the Gate of False Dreams, "But I will gladly listen, and help you, if I'm able, to find what path your feet are meant to tread."

Stavrian is still silent, being addressed by neither in the room. It gives him time to look her over as well as he can in the dark, holding the cup steady until he's certain she won't drop it. When Tuata's attention is on Greje, his eyes flicker priestwards as well, with a clear look in them: 'Cannot wait long'.

"Horn speaks truth, Sister Karthasi, while ivory deceives — and — ah. Mister Stavrian, if I may?" Asking for the tea once again; his flickering gaze is completely missed. "Each time, it is the same: a hissing serpent blood-red on its back, coiled 'round a tree, and upon this tree are the younglings of a sparrow, cowering beneath the leaves, eight in all, and the mother that bare them is the ninth."

A shiver courses down Tuata's spine as she folds herself deeper within the blanket, her tongue licking her lips to capture what droplets of tea remain un-tasted. "And then the serpent devours them as they twitter piteously, and the mother flutters around them, wailing for her dear little ones, until the serpent coils himself and seizes her by the wing as she screams — " Tuata rocks back into her pillow, swaying as she speaks. "And in her dying throes she tasks me, Sister Karthasi, to save the tenth, though counting her there are but nine."

Karthasi catches the look from Stavrian with a motion of both brows, and she opens her mouth to speak, but instead remains silent and listens to the content of the dream, dutifully distracted as she tallies the mythopoetic tropes in her mind, things slipping nicely into place. Before she says anything else, however, she turns her attention back to the Medic, "Does she require attention at present?" she asks him, then, looking back to the other, "It is a very rich dream. Perhaps we can discuss it after you've been seen to by the medical staff. You seem ill," she says, as if just having noticed the fact. Nobody ever claimed that Greje was particularly apt at picking up on what was going on outside of her own mind.

"Of course." Stavrian holds the cup out again for Tuata, steadying it while she sips. As they talk of Tuata's dreams, the medic's looking at her cheek rather than eyes, preventing his own from being read. Only when Greje asks him that does he talk. "I need to have a look at you now, Miss Tuata. I'll do nothing to hurt you." The promise is quite serious. "Please, just ignore me and talk to Sister Karthasi…I'm not here to interrupt the gods' messages."

Niree's not looking at the priestess any longer, and she sips only once before pushing the mug away. The corpsman's request is acknowledged with that odd little smile, though he needn't have averted his gaze — for Tuata's attention is wholly on the Marines outside, her posture taut for several tense seconds before the distinctive crackle of a portable wireless announces a discovery: "Hub, Baker Two-Three, stand by for report. Looks like we found the one."

At that, the girl allows herself a small, contented sigh, relaxing into her pillow as she permits herself to be examined. "I have always wondered, Sister Karthasi, about the sparrow. But tonight, I think I know."

"I have," Greje begins, "Some theories of my own; but— your insight is closer to the dream than mine. What do you think about the identity of the sparrow?" she asks gently, coaxing, letting her relax. The Marines outside might just as well be posted on a different Battlestar. Her hands remain planted on her thighs, her posture calm and attentive.

Marines? What Marines? There's only Stavrian's patient, and the words floating between her and the priest. If he has anything to say on the matter it goes well and unsaid, hovering under a heavy blanket of silence. A nod of thanks given to Tuata, he reaches for her hand to take her pulse, fingertips on the radial artery.

"There is a hymn, Sister Karthasi, that I — " Niree is sweating profusely by now, and her dark eyes roll back into her head as another tremor wracks her body. "That I do not know how to sing." Her words are staggered in perfect time, spoken to some beat only she can hear. "But it is a hymn to Kythereia, mistress of love, pleasure, and the holiest of unions — "

The wireless crackles again. "Baker Two-Three, Hub, standing by."

"Do you know this hymn, Sister Karthasi?" Fingers clench tightly, gripping Stavrian's hand with pressure that, just as quickly, tapers off.

"I know a good number of hymns to Aphrodite," Greje replies quietly. "The sparrow is her creature, among others. It often stands as a symbol of the generative organs," she goes on, "Especially in hymns in which lovers are depicted as stroking one another's pet sparrows, or petting their own when they are lonesome for their love."

"Arrhythmia." Stavrian scoots forward on Tuata's cot, twisting around to call over his shoulder towards the door. "Call Sickbay, it's an emergency. Need a crash team and defibrillator." Heart attack, in this young of a patient? Who'd expect -that-? If she's still gripping his hand he lets her, little else he can do immediately. Hymns of sparrows.

"On it, sir!" The seated Marine leaps into motion, thumb punching the intraship com — "Crash team to the Security Hub! This is no drill! Crash team to — " And the wireless sparks like thunder in the air, fuzzy static cutting in as, in the MP's haste, he forgets to turn off the personal unit on his belt.

And even as that happens, Niree's face has turned away from Stavrian, her right hand grasping his. "Generative," she hisses, and her eyes glitter beneath the light of the room. "This is it exactly, Sister Karthasi — and like her, I give — " Her breaths come short and quick as she struggles for air, and blazing pain streaks through the muscles of her chest. Her left arm tenses, scrabbles at Stavrian's chest, falls limply to the bed. "I give kindly gifts to men," the girl half-sings, plucking some melody out of air. "And smiles are ever on smiles are ever on her lovely face — "

Greje, rather, stands from her kneeling position a little less gracefully than she'd settled into it, startled, a little, by the announcement and the sudden commotion. "Kindly gifts," she echoes thoughtlessly as she backs to a side of the cell, not to get trampled underfoot by the stampede of medical professionals she foresees converging on this place. "It's the next father, Niree. The son who will marry his mother, reborn from the Serpent's Year. The Tenth of Ten, the Seventh of Seven, the Twelfth of Twelve… the youngest and the oldest. You're looking for the father bird," she offers mildly from her new post, trying to keep her voice soothing and keep the woman engaged, to some degree. "The one who escapes death and begins the cycle anew with his progeny before he, too, becomes a serpent, and goes to swallow them."

"I've got you, hold on." Stavrian reaches behind her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to support her. "Keep talking, I've got you." He lets her body down carefully, fingers pressed against her carotid artery. At his hip he pulls open the top flap of the little medicorp kit he wears, pulling two tiny packets of aspirin. They're dropped to the floor and crushed under his heel, the pills cracking as they're pulverized with two stomped steps. Retrieved then, he tears the packets open with his teeth, shaking the powder into what's left of her tea. "Try and swallow this." MacGyver clotbusting 101.

The medical team on standby is waved into the room by suddenly-stricken MPs, their defibrillator already sizzling in the cold. Blue-white sparks shoot from paddle to paddle as the machine's whine increases in volume and pitch; another medic has begun to tear off the girl's clothes, lifting her Fleet-issue sweats without regard for modesty. "Clear!" she calls, and then down the paddles go —

But tonight there will be no sudden, violent jerk, no magical convulsion that signals the return of life to suddenly un-living limbs. The potent mix of tea and aspirin spills over her quivering lips, and for a moment her wide-open eyes gaze directly into Stavrian's — pleading for something — before they glass over entirely. "Clear!" shouts the medic once again, and down again go the paddles —

And from her perch in the corner the priestess might see for a moment a look of pure ecstasy cross the dying girl's face at those words of comfort she speaks: for there's a smile on that lovely face, or so goes the hymn, and lovely is the brightness that plays over it.

Hushed silence; then, from the MP's wireless: "Hub, Baker Two-Three, we've got something for you. Time is — " The machine grinds to a halt. "Twenty-three-forty-two hours. Mark it in the log."

Greje keeps quiet in her corner once the exegesis fails almost in unison with the woman's life. "Look for the father bird," she finally murmurs in a quiet echo of summation, casting her eyes down to the decking in respect for the attrition of the Unseen.

Stavrian leaves the cup aside as the paramedics and one attending doctor get there to pour on the technology, the end of his soma braid swinging slowly above Tuata's face. His blue eyes meet hers and there's nothing said, a palm just laid against the side of her head. Brief, only a second, as then he's cog in this lifegiving machine. As focused in his efforts to keep the woman alive as the others, though the extremely observant would notice his lips already moving in silent appeal of prayer - Hermes, they say, Hermes guide her soul. When finally the attending gives the motion to cease he does so, sitting back on his heels and then, slowly, standing. Giving room for the attending to do the final time of death call, two backward steps bringing him near Greje's shoulder and then stopping.

The doctor presses two fingers against the Tuata's neck before he signals the corpsman to sets the body down against the cot, covering it up with the blanket to afford her what shreds of dignity they're capable of giving. "Twenty-three-forty-two hours," he murmurs, as if committing the number to memory; his head is bowed as he watches the medic stagger to her feet. "I'll order a stretcher team."

It'll take a few more moments of waiting for the Marine to realize his wireless has been on the entire time. Slowly, as if moving through molasses, his vinegar-stained fingertips brush against the volume control, spinning the knob until static fades into blissful silence. "Somebody — " the man croaks. A hand flies to his neck, massaging the base of his throat. "I'll get the Master-at-Arms. Private, keep watch on — " Green eyes don't dare flicker over to where Niree lies. "I'll get the Master-at-Arms," he finishes. Boots stump off, pounding slow rhythms into the deck.

Greje maintains her post, not moving, now, until someone indicates that she ought to, her thoughts all turning inward, her eyes going almost as blank as the dead woman's as she processes the dream, the woman's evident devotion to the Cyprian Goddess, and the manner and timing of her death, mulling things over in a state which, while it might not be able to be called prayer, does totter right on the edge of meditation. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness speaks the thought that she ought to go and get the ritual implements for the last rites. But there will be time for that once the Navy's done with its work.

Stavrian's part in this is over, with the team now packing up their equipment and the doctor scribbling away on her chart. He hasn't moved from his spot, eyes on the area of the body and expression in a quite unreadable mask. It's only now that he has the time to rewind everything in his head, things he understood and things he didn't. And, now not exactly being the time to ask either the gods or priest for any help untangling all this, he's silent as he follows the medical team and body out of the room when they go, the empty packets of aspirin powder forgotten on the floor.

Greje stays behind with the body, sitting vigil with it, in a sense, and sending someone off to the Ecclesiastical Services department in the offices to have someone bring down the needed items to see the woman off properly.

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