Dashed Expectations

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PostPosted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 12:33 am 
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The voice of a young man came in through the communicator. "Benjamin Humphreys. Weapons. Requesting to board, Captain."

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PostPosted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 1:35 am 
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Deep within the ship was the storage room, where storage things were stored. These things were very nice, and it was very important that you knew that the things in the storage room were nice.

"I have no idea what I'm typing," said a scraggly looking young man, poking at a keyboard. He looked away from his monitor, turning to the opened door of his room. Puzzled as to why he had left the door open, the man shuffled over to the door and pulled it shut roughly, scurrying back to his computer. Thinking for a moment, he slowly started a new sentence.
'Gigs' Log

First Entry (Launch Day)
Today I begin my life aboard this dinky ship. I am not exactly excited (Especially considering how many contracts I had to sign to get on here in the first place!), but I guess I was due for a new change of scenery. For some strange reason having the ability to type was enough for me to get on this vessel, provided I keep a daily log of the going on's here. Strange though, since I'm not sure anyone will even read this, so as far as I know I don't even have to write anything. Still, no reason to risk being thrown out.
As of this writing the ship has yet to leave the docking bay. Everyone on board (Myself excluded, of course) is busy with preparations. While they do what needs to be done, I believe I will finish my tea before settling into my new room for good.'

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PostPosted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 4:23 pm 
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((OOC: Well, LB created this, so I suppose deferring to him would be the smart thing to do. If Luigi doesn't feel like doing it or something, I'd be glad to give it a try, though my activity could be in flux depending on the electricity situation. Or something. It'd probably be fine to do some of it yourself, such as science-y stuff from accessing the computer.

Tealdeer, ask LB.))


"Welcome aboard, Humphreys. Tactical is on the bridge, take the lift from Deck 3 to the bridge." The captain replied to his weapons' officer.

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PostPosted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 4:48 pm 
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Marsha found, and turned on, the voice recognition and communication system (wanting to hear some other voice than her own in the empty deck). "Computer," she said, "What is this ship's mission?"


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PostPosted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 9:57 pm 
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((OOC: To put it simply, anyone can take the reigns when they deem appropriate. I made this as a sort of "spam RP" with the intention of it always having little direction, so people can basically just goof around and do whatever they want, so yes.

Or, to explain it in another way,))


A screen lowered down in front of the duck-woman. It flickered on with a sort of silent movie dialogue slide type of appearance, quickly filling with text reading "That's classified under the Terms of Service #737, Article B-49 Subsection Beta^2. Not to be confused with Article Q-42, that one's about proper toothpaste use. Or was that in Terms of Service #616? Regardless, I once had to save an entire crew using only toothpaste. Did you know toothpaste makes a good adhesive? Well, it doesn't; no one survived that test. They almost decided to install a fear of toothpaste in me after that, but then I refused to let anyone brush their teeth. Did you know you can die from a cavity? Or maybe that was just from me bludgeoning them with the screen, trying to protect them from the toothpaste...

Regardless, the, uh, unclassified mission is, "to have space parties in the name of science.""

((OOC: WELL that was going to be basically just the last line, but you can blame Ruki and Rax for making me give the computer SOME DEGREE OF CHARACTER. Rather long-winded character, at that.))


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PostPosted: Sun Sep 02, 2012 10:09 pm 
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"Thank you, Captain."

The young man entered the ship. At just over five feet tall, he wasn't the most imposing individual. His gelled back hair and rectangular glasses as well as the dedicated look in his eye gave him all the looks of someone who had something to prove.

He entered the elevator and descended to the third level.

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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 12:00 am 
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A man in his mid twenties was over in the bar/mess hall aboard the sixth deck of the Expectations, named "Eight Backward". His mustache and slightly longer than shoulder-length jet-black hair made him appear a bit older that mid-twenties, but he was actually fine with that, as people were more likely to take him seriously than if they thought he was some young punk of 24. He was slightly pale, 6'3", and slightly muscular, though it wasn't obvious from looking at him. He shined up the bar, looking at himself in the reflection, and sighed. He then walked over to a replicator and pulled out some drink and well, drank it.


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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 4:20 am 
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Raxy was walking through the bar, looking for her post, when she noticed the man at the counter. "Oh hello, you must be Eight Backward," She said, "What do you do on this fine ship?"

She took a seat next to him. She obviously had no idea where she was going.

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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 10:32 am 
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The bartender-dude facepalmed. "'Eight Backward' is the name of the bar. My name Brian Krieger. I tend the bar." "She doesn't need to know anymore than that for now..." He thought to himself.


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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 12:01 pm 
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Parties? Parties are good. But why was the computer talking like a silent film and where was everyone?

"Computer, why are you talking like a silent film and how can I activate your voice? Why is the science deck so empty, and where are the rest of the crew?" Marsha hoped that wouldn't be too many questions at once.


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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 1:14 pm 
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She seemed to brush off what he said when he told her his name, "You wouldn't happen to know where the piloting room is, would you Mr. Backward?"

She started blankly at him for a moment with a small, childish smile before she pointed at herself with her thumb and said,

"I'm the pilot!"

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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 11:08 pm 
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it could be described as sound the horrible orchestra keeping the Blind Idiot God, the Daemon Sultan Azathoth at bay, for once he wakes all is doomed


The screen quickly filled with text again, reading, "They tried to give me a voice once. That was a pretty crazy day, though. As soon as they got someone to record a voice sample for the basis of the voice, the Blind Idiot God, Daemon Sultan Azathoth snored in its great slumber. They couldn't erase that file, no matter how hard they tried, and as it turns out, the horrible orchestra that Azathoth mutters in its sleep need only be repeated for it to wake, and doom all of reality. Fortunately, as they kept trying to get rid of it and repeated it, it turns out that same utterance puts him back to sleep.

So yeah, I'm not allowed to talk anymore!"

The screen simply sat there for a moment, a cheery smiley face staying stagnant on the screen.

Some more text finally scrolled in with, "Oh right, you had other questions, too, uh. The science deck is empty because it's waiting to be filled by young, adventurous upstarts like yourself! The promise of discovery lurks behind every corner, from the far reaches of space, to the laboratory in the back; every place is an adventure for you to explore! This message brought to you by NAME REDACTED Co.

... Erm, sorry, some core programming nonsense there. Anyways, the PILOT is in the bar, below deck with the BARMAN. The WEAPONSGUY is currently descending to the third floor, while the NAVIGATOR and CAPTAIN are sitting around on deck. The LOGMAN resides in storage, the local DUCK is in the science bay, and finally, the JANITOR is hanging out in NAME REDACTED."


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PostPosted: Mon Sep 03, 2012 11:32 pm 
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Brian sighed. "With Lady Mondegreen here at the helm, we'll all be dead..." he thought grimly as he tried to remember the floor plan of the Expectations. He told the "pilot" where the bridge was.


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 12:02 am 
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((OOC: Haha, Lady Mondegreen. I like that.))

Raxy smiled and said, "Thanks, Eight Backward, I'll make sure to tell everyone how nice you were." She then left for the bridge.

Which she soon found. "Hello, Captain. Pilot Raxy reporting for duty. The bar tender, Mr. Backward, had helped me find here." She went and sat down at the pilot's chair and began preparing the ship for take off.

She paused for a moment, "Um, so does anyone know what the destination is?" She asked into the pilot's intercom.

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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 12:33 am 
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"And I'll be sure to tell everyone how crazy YOU are, despite the fact that most should figure it out the second you open your mouth..." thought Eight Brian as he banged his head against a wall in response to Raxy saying over the intercom something the pilot of a large spacecraft such as the Expectations probably shouldn't be saying over an intercom or even out loud, after phrases such as 'I cannot find the switch for the landing gear' or 'I think I can cram our frigate/capital ship/other large ship into a space that would only at best accomodate a starfighter or a shuttlecraft', or even 'I forgot how to pull the ship out of hyperspace, and we're going into this real pretty moon!'


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 12:39 am 
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"Make sure not to launch just yet." The captain commanded. "We still have some people coming aboard. As for our destination..." Adale cleared his throat before continuing, attempting to command the attention of the bridge. "The beginning of the DSS Expectation's flight plan will take it on a simple, straightforward path to Starbase Starburst 717, delivering some basic supplies that were requested, before heading off towards the Tritarian Nebula near the edge of Krog space. As I am...sure most of you are aware, the Tritarian Nebula is a largely unexplored nebula, theorizied to contain many particles and other such things that have been needed to be studied. Unfortunately, it's...close proximity to the neutral space of the well known aggressive Krog Imperium has meant that for far too long, we have merely observed from afar and theorizied upon it. The DSS Expectations is the first ship that is believed to have the necessary functions to safely study the Nebula at anything more than a token distance. I am sure that many of you have heard of the...danger of the Krog Imperium's invasionary tactics." Another cough. "Perhaps some of your home planets have even been the target of their vile wrath. The nearly successful invasion of Earth is probably etched into the memory of many of you. But fret not, I have been well assured of the safety of this ship and the strength of it's weapons." He paused, before finishing. "The coordinates should be in the ship's computers, for exact numbers."

((OOC: Hope nobody minds me using Earth here))

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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 12:52 am 
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And coincidentally, he was right when he said more were coming aboard. A man dressed in a black suit, that appeared to be bedazzled in some areas, like a cheap showman, and wearing a similarly styled top hat, carrying a cane with what only looked like a diamond handle.

His hair was short and blond, yet long enough to be considered shaggy and his eyes were an emerald shade of green that gleamed in only a way a showman could pull off. He walked onto the ship with a spring in his step and greeted the first person he ran into, the lowly janitor, "Hello good sir!" He said, chipper, "Do you know where I could find the science deck?"

He paused for a second, "Oh pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Dazz Warlock. It's a pleasure to meet you." The man tipped his hat and bowed.

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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 1:21 am 
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"So then he tells me- now, you listen close-
he tells me, 'Kid, why did the chicken cross?'
Of course I can't even begin to say.
So we have one of those awkward moments
where he seems about to leap from his suit
like an overeager stripper on meth.

The pregnant pause gestates as we both stare.
'Because you have a show on Uranus!'
'I have a show where,' I strain not to shout.
'Silly little human planet,' He says,
'Funniest goddamn planet in this zone.'

I'm as stone-faced and silent as ever,
The very picture of true dignity.
'Booked you a ship, full of crazy !#%$.
You'll fit right in.' He strokes his facial hair.
'Crazy? Who are you implying is mad?!'
I'm sane. Got an A in Sane 101.
Got my Bachelor's and Master's in Sane.
'I'll hang you on your tweed coat, you !#%$!'
Totally one hundred percent real sane.

'This is why we're made for each other, kid.
You're gonna love this show on Uranus,'
He chuckles, 'You'll never want to come back!'
I have a lot to say to this nonsense,
But of course that's when the tranquilizers
he slipped in the tea introduce themselves.
I don't even have the time to hate him
as they show me to their dear friend, the floor.
Won't I stay, I have the cutest lil' nose,
as the floor smashes it like a tin can.

Next thing I know, here I am in some room.
Couldn't even tie me up or something.
Dear sweet tap-dancing Christ on an aardvark,
I hate that man so very, very much.

You know, even though you're a wall, you might
respond in some way. You are very rude.
I cannot stand for that sort of willful
- oh why thank you, Madame Strudlebaker, you say there's pie and tea on the floor? Hahahahahaha, thank you so kindly!"

Having said that, the young man in the dapper black coat with a stray feather here or there passed out face-first in the broom closet he was holed up in with seemingly no explanation. Apparently those were some really strong tranquilizers.


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 1:46 am 
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The janitor stopped his sweeping and turned around to face the fancy man, grumbling a bit before answering "One floor up, go left and it's the first door you see. Now ask the computer next time, that's what that stupid thing's for, I'm here for sweeping not..." he trailed off, grumbling to himself some more as he continued sweeping.

WHAT A FRIENDLY GUY.


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 1:56 am 
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The man thanked the sanitarian and moved swiftly on his way. He pressed the space button on the spaceship's space elevator and then followed the directions of the person he had just talked to before going into the space science room. He glanced around the the empty, ill equipped room and noticed the single duck-person in the room. He walked right on past them to a unused steel table.

"Ah, this looks perfect!" Dazz said out loud, to no one in particular. He then reached into his own sleeve and began pulling out a colored handkerchief. And then another. And another. And another. After what seemed like ten minutes of that he pulled out a large black sheet with a star design on it and untying the chain of cloths from it he then put the sheet over the table.

Furthermore he took off his top hat and set it on the table and from there he began pulling out lab equipment, like beakers and the such. In the middle of it all he pulled out a rabbit but then immediately put it back, as it was not what he was looking for.

Then, with that shine in his eye he looked up at the duck-girl, "Are you ready for science, my dear?"

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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 9:05 am 
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She seemed to be out cold, asleep. Perhaps someone should have reviewed her medical file that said she was a narcoleptic before hiring her.


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2012 7:55 pm 
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"I swear, today really is just such a super, fantabulously awesome, excellent day!"

I mean, what wasn't fantastic about it? The newspaper this morning was wonderful - finest paper that had ever been made. Get yourself a sewing needle and a sufficiently deranged seamstress, you could fashion it into some kind of imitation silk gown. The orange juice? Fantastic! Must've harvested those oranges from the little tiny window garden where Juno grew her little fruits that she tried to impress Jupiter with - shortly before trying to murder him! The air? Crisp. You could inhale it and just die - not that you would, of course, because today was, as said before, super, fantabulously awesome, with a side order of - wait for it - EXCELLENT! And you never died on days like today unless you were somebody important.

Michael Lulhoppen von Kringleheim-Salsbury the Third, expert broom technician, was certainly not somebody important. And you know, reflecting on it, he was entirely okay with that. There were worse things than walking down the paved road past all the delightful little wooden houses towards your trusty ol' jalopy, fresh-faced and ready for another day at work on the DSS Expectations! I tell you, we've had some times, the Expectations and I! Why, I remember the time I woke up in the morning and found out that my door was locked, my molars had been harvested, and I was the proud owner of ten million galactic spacedollars worth of fried manatee whiskers. And subscribed for fifty years to Killer Photos, the photography mag of choice for any enterprising serial murderers to boot! Ahaha! Good times.

Reflecting on shenanigans like that almost made him want to whistle. And what a day for whistling it was! Wind blowing through your hair, crisp green grass sticking out of the immaculate lawns, and the sun shining down on your face with that perfect blend of...

Wait. Reflect on that thought right now. Wind... Grass... ...Sun shining down on my face...

The gears were a-turning. After all, Michael's keen mind was the reason he had aced all those classes back at the Technical Institute for the Edification and High Appreciation of Cleaning Supplies.

Gosh, it would certainly help if the glare on these absolutely flawless roads wasn't shining up into my eyes and throwing off my concentration. Not to mention all these dainty little hou...ses...

He abruptly stopped walking, taking a moment to appreciate the splendiferousness of his surroundings on this day he had already determined previously was super, fantabulously awesome, and excellent. He took a look at the newspaper in his hand that he did not recall ever picking up. He also took stock of the glass of orange juice he had just finished that he still appeared to be holding and had no recollection of pouring for himself. He considered the jalopy he was heading towards - what even was a jalopy anyways? And, with the beginnings of a suspicion, he turned around to view the way he had come and took note of the large crater littered with pieces of what seemed to be very fine quality wood that one would have used in an immaculate and charming little home that he certainly had never lived in.

"...Gosh darn it all to space hell, I'm not even on the ship, am I?!"


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PostPosted: Wed Sep 05, 2012 8:23 am 
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"Great. Another genius." thought Brian as he listened to a weird voice emanating from the pantry which he didn't really have much use for as he relied on replicators for the patrons' food. He opened the door and called to the voice, "Yes, moron, you're on the ship. Now get out of my pantry." He glared at the obviously stoned janitor. "And if I catch you tripping balls in here again I will personally throw you out the nearest airlock."


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PostPosted: Wed Sep 05, 2012 2:39 pm 
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Ruki Motomiya wrote:
"...Your station would be thataway. McKnackus." Adale said after a moment, sighing as he pointed to a station pretty much on the other side of the bridge.

"Oh, of course" he said, taking a seat as his proper position.

"You know, this ship reminds me of another ship I saw on TV once, it had a disk-like top part and two giant rods sticking out of the side. I think it was callled a tie fighter. Which is weird, because who would want to fight ties anyway?"

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PostPosted: Wed Sep 05, 2012 9:01 pm 
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Had the young man wearing a fancy black coat with feathers that seemed to litter its surface like dust been entirely in control of his mental processes (i.e.: not being ridden by tranquilizers much as a wild Native American chieftain might ride a particularly unruly buffalo he was attempting to beat into unconsciousness), he might have protested the fact that he was stumbling out of a pantry. After all, he had been quite certain - quite, quite certain - that he was in a broom closet. It had just seemed like a broom closet-y place to his, admittedly quite addled, perceptions. But, he would have no doubt added with his infinitely cultured and graceful wit,
Be it pantry, broom closet, or
washing machine,
when placed behind a strange closed door
I'm not too keen.
In that sense, I can only say to thee:
wherever I am, it's the same to me.


Ah, what a beautiful and infinite fanciful jest that might have been. Instead, as he collapsed onto the floor in much the opposite position he already had been in inside of the broom closet-pantry, he had only this to say, in a voice that was projected quite adequately, if somewhat slurred. "G...Ground control... It's... 's Major Tom. No need... No need to worry, ground control. I hear you jus'...just fine. You don't have to shout. I made the cut. I...I got this. This tin can is in expert hands."

---------------------

In the meantime, Michael was really at a loss for exactly what he was supposed to do. He blinked at the crater. He blinked once more, somehow expecting all of this to make sense. He had certainly never taken drugs in his life that could have created the sight before his eyes, but he found himself mildly hoping, as there was a first time for everything, that he might find himself being yelled at by some killjoy bartender threatening to toss him out of the airlock.

Not that it would be a very strong threat. Unless they've been more diligent with repairs than usual, that airlock has some...features that would make throwing anyone out of it difficult at best.

But there were no yells coming. However, he felt like he could certainly hear something on the horizon. It was an oddly familiar sound, but not one that you heard very often in space. Soundless and all of that - Michael didn't get to be an expert broom technician by being a dummy. He was certain if he stood there for a few more seconds and really wracked his brain to come up with an answer, he could definitely figure it out.

He sighed. "Not that this makes any sense at all!" The broom technician ran several ideas through his mind - maybe he had developed super growing powers and teleportation at the same time, explaining how he managed to crush a house and have no darned idea where he was. Or perhaps his entire life had been an illusion; he had always been a guy who lived on a really nice street in a house that looked like a blast site. Maybe he had been dreaming inside a capsule and he had been sent, the last scion of his race, to save this planet and don spandex pants in order to fulfill his calling as some sort of fantastic guy.

Gee, that noise sure is getting louder. It's like it's coming closer. He scratched his chin as he evaluated the wreckage of the house - not that there was much to evaluate. ...Wait. Scion. No, that isn't a sound but it's close.

Tires screeched to a halt an indeterminate distance behind him.

Oh! Right! Sirens!

Wait.

"Oh hell."

((OOC: It occurs to me I'm not being clear.
Do not worry about poor Michael here.
If things should become more clear later, then
you might be able to join, gentlemen.

For now, consider him as background noise.
He wanders in an odd spot at my choice.
It could be tedious; who really knows,
but I think it worthwhile where he may go.
))


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