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918692 No. 918692 ID: 8dd8f9

What do you see?

A tree? Many see a tree.
A flower? Many see a flower.
Darkness? Many see naught but darkness.

I see the truth.

There is no tree, or flower, or even darkness.

There is only you.

Good and bad.
Right and wrong.
Light and dark.

They only exist in the eye of the beholder.

You are the beholder.


This is a story of humanity, of the power for change that exists in every living thing.

But what changes will you manifest? What path will you walk?

...What will you sacrifice?


Every choice you make has bearing, ever step you take is one further on the path you choose.

There is no good.

There is no evil.

There is only you.


One path, one chance, one life.

No retries, no going back, no room for failure.


This is a story of humanity.

This, is the path of a hero.
123 posts omitted. Last 50 shown. Expand all images
>>
No. 920708 ID: 977456

There might be secret messages in the porn. Maybe the first-letters of the implied locations? Or some feature of the scene is used to convey a morse code...
>>
No. 920712 ID: 2202fb

>>920705
This is cheesy as fuck. Make sure she isn't fucking with you. If she isn't, you two need to plan. She is coming with us, be it as a prisoner, pet, or a compatriot. I like her. We should go to Greenland. If we plan right, we should be able to get enough shit to set up a decent place there. We would need a cargo plane to hold everything along with solar panels, solar batteries, wiring, hydroponics supplies, and anything else one may feasibly need to be self-sufficient in a WW3 or post-apocalyptic environment.

The location we should go to is Camp Century, a long-abandoned secret US military base built as part of Project Iceworm.
>>
No. 920840 ID: b49636

>We need to save the world. I don't like it.
Well I don't like it either. How the hell am I going to save the world, huh? We'll talk about this later.

>look at porn harder.
You'd like that, wouldn't you?

>Be a preper in Greenland.
I don't really want to hang out in Greenland for fifty years while the world is busy getting not lethally radioactive. For one: mind-numbingly boring. For two: is it even worth living at that point? For three: I wouldn't actually be completely safe up there. The bombs that the world is armed with now would pretty much fuck the entire world. It doesn't matter where you go, how far you get, if just a couple extra-orbit ODEN bombs are dropped, everyone would be dead. Everyone.

No, there's no running from this one.

The fact that your father though he could get you safe at all was a huge misconception.


"I'm thinking that you'd better not be lying, for your own sake." You say.

"I swear on... My life that I'm telling the truth." Says Karma.

You look her in the eyes as she says this. You see not a single sign that she is lying. Either she's got the best poker face you've ever see (besides your own), or she is telling the honest to god truth.

You nod. "I'm also thinking that is the cheesiest shit I've ever heard." You say.

"I already said that." She says.

"Well I've just affirmed." You say.

Karma gives you a look that very clearly says 'uh huh' without the use of speech.

You tilt your head back to stare at the ceiling while you release a big sigh. "How much would I regret it if I untied you?" You muse.

"That depends." She says.

You look at her and raise an eyebrow.

"It depends on how you feel about weed, instant noodles, and music that went out of style fifty years age." She says, a small grin forming.

"Cut down on the weed, eat whatever the fuck you want, and if it's not from this century I'm okay with it. Oh yeah, and don't try to pull any shit." You say.

"Can I cut the shit?" She asks, that grin widening.

"Some day, I'm going to look back at this moment, and realize how much of a mistake this is." You say, beginning to undo the paracord.


Five minutes later, Karma is unbound, dressed in some of the spare clothes, and eating all the fucking noodles.

You kept the pistol of course, and both knives.

Between mouthfuls of noodles, Karma speaks; "What's the next move?" She asks.

"Hell if I know. I don't have any safe places to go, I don't have enough money to afford a safe-house, and I don't have any allies." You say.

"You've got me, and I've got an apartment." She says.

"Where?" You ask.

"Financial district, Chicago. Before you ask, the government pays well." She says.

You have to figure out your next move.

You could head to Karma's apartment. Trust has to start somewhere, right? Though you still want to be cautious.
You could also go to your parents house and try to figure some of this shit out. Answers from the horses mouth would be nice, and you could pick up whatever of your stuff you wanted to take.
Or something else. like what?
>>
No. 920844 ID: dd1c4a

I think it says something that at least one of the superpowers managed to build a bomb system, each with a death radius so large that nobody on Earth could win even if everyone who didn't fire it bent their ass over and begged to die.

There's only one logical explanation why it hasn't been sabotaged (physically, financially, desperately) yet: Project Far Zenith is ready for deployment.

So hijack THAT and you've got a good shot at true survival. Ask Karma where a multitrillionaire conglomerate would hide their space shuttles.
>>
No. 920849 ID: 2202fb

>>920844
Did you make this up?

Idk what to do at this point. If there is no hope for survival then i guess we might as well just throw in the towel now.

I am not really digging the idea of playing Alex Rider and saving the world from some bs shit. I guess i am just rather blasé.
>>
No. 920938 ID: 5bbd2d

>>920849
We don't have enough broken motion capture to do it like Scot Ryder.

And don't worry, this ain't that kinda story.

Just bare with me for a bit, things are about to pick up.

>>
No. 920941 ID: 2202fb

>>920938
Alex Rider was actually a book series written by Anthony Horowitz i read in middle school about a teen spy. As cheesy as that is, one of their defining traits was the realism and not shying away from extreme violence and gore.
>>
No. 920965 ID: 9147c2

>>920941
Oops, got Ryder and Rider confused. On the plus side I now have more books to read.
>>
No. 921014 ID: 2625d3

You sigh.

"We're heading for my parents house." You say.

"Why?" Asks Karma.

"I need to end this bullshit. I don't know what's going to happen when I get there, but I know that I need to talk to my father, and tell him how much of a dumbass he's been." You say.

Karma huffs a small laugh past her mouthful of noodles. "Alright. I'll come with you." She said.

"Why?" You ask.

"Someone needs to keep you in check." Said Karma.

You give a scowl.


Ten minutes to pack up, and you're off. This time with Karma driving; you figure it's safe since you have the gun.

On the way, you stop to get some fast food. Karma insisted, saying that you both needed something better than canned beans.

You don't like fast food. In fact, you don't really like food in general.

You don't like very many things.

You don't really know anyone you like. There are people you find tolerable, like your parents, but you just don't like people.

You don't get joy out of too many things either. You like gaming, to an extent. There are some books you like to read. You've seen a movie or two that wasn't bad. You suppose you get a certain pleasure out of tinkering.

Overall, though, you just... Don't really enjoy life.

What are you living for? What are you even doing here?

Your father, a man who must have committed terrible acts as SAS, who has closed himself off to his emotions; even he loved you enough to sacrifice for you, to get you away from the shadow of the atom bomb.

But when you think of him you feel... Nothing.

It's just this emptiness, this void in your stomach where you know something should be. Something,Anything!

Hate would be better. Hate to fill this horrible emptiness where a human part of you just doesn't exist.

You just... You just...

You're empty.

Why are you even here? Here in this drive-through with a girl you bound and threatened with torture. This girl who's helping you!

It would be better if she hated you, if she would just attack you so you could kill her and be done with all this bullshit.

Why? Why would she help you? After you attacked her and stole from her.

It doesn't make sense.

You're so tired, you're just... Just so fucking tired.


You're sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV, eating a bland cheeseburger. You're just barely aware of this as your mind floods with painful thoughts.

You reach up to wipe a bit of ketchup off your face, and find that your cheek is moist.

You... you're crying.

You've never cried in your life. Not since you were old enough to speak.

You're crying.


It starts as a soft sniffling, then breaks out into soft sobs.

You try to stop, but you can't. You've never felt like this before. It hurts.

Karma notices your distressed state and takes her eyes of the road to look at you. "Borya? What's the problem?" She asks, she sounds genuinely concerned.

She cares.

That makes the hurt even worse.


You try to respond, try to form a cohesive sentence, try to pull yourself together. But you can't.

You can't manage even a single fucking word.


Karma pulls the car over and faces you head on. "Borya, are you okay?" She asks. She sounds worried.

You nod, trying to hold back the tears that just keep pouring out.

Karma doesn't speak, she just pulls you over to her, and cradles you against her side.

You flinch at the touch, your reflexes telling you to break her hand as soon as it's in contact with you.

Eventually, you relax into her embrace and just cry. Just... Just cry.

You're so fucked up.
>>
No. 921027 ID: 2202fb

No, this is a good thing. We now know that you are really really depressed. The first step to solving a problem is knowing you have a problem in the first place.
>>
No. 921081 ID: 094652

These are the End Times. I'd be worried if you weren't panicking.

Concentrate, we're here to keep you functioning. Not sane, but functioning.

First off, finish your burger. Second, put the safety on your gun. Third, think about what Mark would do if he weren't retired and was ordered by psycho bosses to stop World War 3 by any means necessary.
>>
No. 921089 ID: 2202fb

>>921081
Idk, i dont want to go that route. We dont have resources and tbh what has the word done for us?

Here is my idea: lets go home and go back to school. Try to make some friends (force yourself). After you have a handful, time to start prepping. Build a faraday cage and put all the important tech in it. Rob a best buy if you need to.
After that, time to hop on a plane and go somewhere. Take the friends with you. Once this whole thing blows over, you will be in a decent position to start the new world order (so start doing your kegels and make sure one of the friends is attractive).
>>
No. 921090 ID: 2202fb

>>921089
But seriously, even if you dont get into that sort of stuff, you could still start a hostile takeover of what is left of the country of your choice.

Additionally, there is a seed bunker up north that should have resources. and seeds.
>>
No. 921392 ID: a06fd2

Borya opens her eyes, and finds herself laying across the front seats of the SUV.

Karma is nowhere in sight, and the sun is setting. You must have slept for several hours.


You sit up, and survey your surroundings.

The SUV has been parked in a small rest-area off the highway. The lot appears empty save for the Mercedes.

In front of you, pine trees rise from a large swath of manicured grass. To your left, a cement building clearly labeled as the bathrooms stands.

About three-hundred feet to your left, you hear the sounds of the busy freeway.


You lean back in your seat and take a moment to collect yourself.

>This is a good thing. We now know you have depression.
You sound like my fucking psychologist.

>Panicking.
You aren't. You're nearly incapable of feeling anxiety or panic.

Mental duress? That's another story.


You suppose it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. What little emotion you have festering in the back of your mind, waiting for a moment of mental weakness to break out in an illogical flood of despair.

It shouldn't happen again.


>We're here to keep you functioning. Not sane, but functioning.
...Thanks.


You take a moment to ensure your mental clarity, then hop out of the car.

Karma shouldn't have gone too far. You'll find her.


You start towards the bathrooms, but see a figure wave at you from the picnic benches in the far corner of the rest area.

You start towards who you now recognize as Karma.


Once you get closer you see that she is supping on the leftovers from the fast food restaurant.

"Sorry to leave you alone, but I needed to take a piss, and decided to let you sleep." Says Karma.

"It's fine." You reply, sitting across from her at the table.

She seems to take note of your clothes, only a T-shirt on your upper body. "Borya, it's forty fucken degrees. Don't you need a coat?" She asks. Indeed, she herself clothed in a leather jacket.

You inspect your arms, which have begun to turn purple in the cold. "That's twenty degrees above the point where I need a coat." You say.

Karma gives a sort of 'suit yourself' shrug and returns to the cold meal she's scavenged of your collective scraps.

You sigh. Either you address it now, or let it lay indefinitely. Best to just rip this bandage off fast.

"Karma, I'm sorry for that outburst. It was illogical, and it won't happen again." You say.

Karma waves dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Now, you should eat some of this stuff before I get it all." She says.

Thank any God listening that she didn't pry.

You grab a box of cold fries and start eating. It tastes rather bad, but it's better than nothing.


You manage to gat an acceptable meal's worth of food.

"We should go." You say.

"What's the hurry? Let's take a minute to decompress." Says Karma, swinging her feet up onto the table and reclining in move that looks more dramatic than comfortable.

"I don't decompress. I don't need to." You say.

"Well that's your fucken problem right there." She says, taking a small vape out of her pocket.

"Wait. Where'd you get that? I searched your person, and your car." You ask, indicating the vaporizer.

"Spare tire." She says simply.

"But I checked the compartment... Tire lining." You say, figuring out where she hid the small device.

"Yep, and the police have never confiscated this thing because of it." She says, her grin exuding both complacency, and psychoactive vapor.

"Fine. Ten minutes." You say.

She snaps upright in a salute. Her right hand held rigid to her forehead, and her left holding the vape to her mouth. "Ma'am, yes, Ma'am! Drill Sargent Burkouskie!" She says.

"At ease, Private pothead." You say, your tone devoid of emotion. But you allow a slight smirk to curl your lips.

She drops the salute, and you start off towards the car before she can reciprocate.


It is exactly nine minutes fifty-two seconds before Karma hops into the car. You counted the seconds.

"Alright, we still headed for your house?" She asks.

"Yes." You say. Your conviction is a facade, but you're still sure.

"Okay then." Says Karma, her tone far less certain than yours.


The ride is short, thirty minutes at most before you hit the edge of the city and the suburbs begin.

The neighborhood may be familiar, but you realize that the denizens are not. You never bothered to get to know any of these people personally. You can't say you really regret that. Just a pile of privileged, upper middle class white yuppies. That, or withering retired folk reminiscing about the 'good old days', and how the world now sucks compared to when they grew up.


You come within view of your house, and find that your parents have company.

"Fuck!" Exclaims Karma.

If you were as inclined toward vulgar speech as her, your reaction would be similar.

Two amphibious APC's sit out front of the house, and one police car -the sheriffs- is parked just beyond those. The insignia of the National Guard can be made out painted on the sides of the APC's.

"Borya, we should leave. We're up shit creek already, let's cut losses and go." Says Karma.

You aren't leaving. But caution hasn't deserted you yet. You'll need a plan of action.

A frontal assault is obviously out of the question. So whatever you do, it needs to be quiet.

You've got a plan already. So unless you hear something better, you're executing it.

Please give only vague plans of action. An I'll work what I can into the approach.
>>
No. 921473 ID: 2202fb

What the fuck, why are they here?!

I guess you should try to sneak in and grab as much of your shit as you can, prioritizing hard drives and expensive tech.

If you want a challenge, you could try to take them all out (nonlethally) and then you can steal their gear (srsly, strip them down to their skivvies if you go this route) and vehicles. Two APCs mean you will need to drive one while Karma drives the other.
>>
No. 921485 ID: 094652

You have a gun. Shoot a birb out of the sky and let the sheriff deal with it. Actually have you seen any feral cats around here?
>>
No. 921549 ID: 2202fb

>>921473
Additionally, are these APCs Strykers? What kind? Do they have slats? If they have missiles, autocannons, or an MGS system, you guys need to break now and floor it.
>>
No. 921572 ID: 1b6c0c

>>921485
>You have a gun, shoot a bird, let the sheriff deal with it. Are there any feral cats around?
...What?

>>921473
>Why are they here?!
Any second now, your inquiry is going to cause me to spontaneously develop clairvoyance, specifically for the purpose of answering that question.

I'm trying to say that I have no fucking idea.

Educated guess? It probably has to do with your father. He's dangerous enough to warrant this kinda force.

>What kind of APC?
Transport only. No mounted armaments.


"Karma, back the car up a block or so, and park at the curb. Keep the engine running, we may need to make a quick getaway." You say. Grabbing the empty duffle bag to carry stuff back in.

"No, fuck that. That's the National Guard, we can't go up against that, Borya." Says karma.

"Which is why I'm about to commit some acts of irregular warfare." You say, hopping out of the car before Karma can respond.

You start down the street a ways, and hear Karma reverse a little bit before stopping.


Once you get close enough, you see that there are still several guardsmen hanging around the APC's, they have full combat gear.

You duck into the hedge wall between your house and a neighbor's, and inch your way closer to the house.

It's late-twilight right now, so visibility is good for an infiltration op.

You're to the left side of the building. It's a two story house, and your bedroom is on the second floor.

Seeing no hostiles in your vicinity, you quiet-sprint to the side of the house.

On compass points, the front of the house is east-facing, so the backyard is westwards. Meaning you are currently hugging the southern wall. Your bedroom is in the south-west corner of the house, with a window that faces the backyard.

Keeping close to the wall, you stalk toward the backyard. When you hear voices, you take cover at the corner of the house.

You strain to make out the conversation;
"He hasn't been found yet, sir."

"The mother?"

"She's in custody, sir."

"And what about the 'shark', any trace?"

"None, sir."

"Damnit. Keep looking, be thorough. And get some men to lock down the premises."

"Yes sir!"

You can only make guesses as to what all that meant, but it seems they have your mother in custody, haven't yet found your father, and are looking for something called the 'shark'.

Possibly useful.


You peak around the corner of the house, and see the two people who were just talking standing in the middle of the backyard.

One is a captain of the National Guard, he's wearing plain fatigues with no combat gear, and seems to be armed with only a pistol.

The other soldier is a Private first class. He is fully equipped; anti-ballistic helmet, body-armor, and a SOPMOD M4.

He's also walking towards you.

You'd have to sprint straight through his field of vision to get back to the hedges, and there's no cover near enough for you to reach in time.

You drop into prone go completely motionless, hoping you'll blend in with the grass.


The wait is agonizing as the solder walks casually past. Yet he doesn't notice you, and you count your blessings for that.


Once he's far enough, you raise into a crouch and check the backyard again.

The captan is gone.


As slowly and quietly as you dare, you stalk into the backyard and towards the porch.

You arrive without issue or engagement, and climb up on top of the porches roof.

Your window is just a short distance away, but it doesn't have anything you can grab onto, so jumping isn't an option.

Instead, you jump up and grab onto the gutter, shimmy by your hands towards the window.

The cheap aluminum gutter holds your weight, but the metal edge cuts into your hands multiple times.

Blood pours from your newly garnered cuts, and slickens your hands. You struggle to maintain your grip as the pain and blood threaten to surrender you to gravity.

You reach your window, and look into your room.

Finding it empty, you start swinging back and forth, building momentum.

The gutter groans under the strain, but before it can give way you swing forward and transfer all that momentum into the window-frame.

It immediately gives way and brakes free from its housing, falling inward.

You swing in through the now-empty window-frame.

Your room is somewhat sound-proofed, so you're fairly certain no one heard you.


You start gathering things from around the room:

—Your Glock, with three spare mags.
—KTS, your silent pistol.
—Two changes of clothes.
—Your laptop and it's charger.
—Some of your Tools (Soldering iron, set of screwdrivers, universal wrench, wire-cutter, light bolt-cutters, light crow-bar.)
—A Leatherman multitool.
—All your cash.

You're just about finished when you hear the doorknob turning.

You've just turned around, and are reaching for your gun when a solder enters the room and sees you. He goes for his pistol.

He's faster.

You see the flash, hear the bang, and feel a tremendous force strike you in the abdomen.

Time seems to slow. You touch a hand to your side, and find it covered in blood when you pull it away.

You... You've been shot.


Reality seems to unravel at the seams, and darkness begins to lace your vision.

Standing becomes too difficult, and you vaguely feel yourself hit the floor.

Blood, your blood, is pooling around you and seeping into the floorboards.

Death smiles at you.

You grin back.
>>
No. 921573 ID: 22f2a7

>>921572

The Path of a Hero, chapter one END
>>
No. 921574 ID: 22f2a7

>>921573

The thread isn't over yet.
>>
No. 921621 ID: 2202fb

>>921574
Yeah, it better not end like this. Btw, you forgot the hard drives. We cant print guns without the CADs.
>>
No. 922027 ID: ea5a64

No.

You let the gun clatter to the floor, and watch as the girl does the same.

You... You didn't mean to. You just... Reflexes got the better of you and...

Your name is Sargent Sloane Wick, and you just shot a child.


You rush to her side, crouching next to her on the floor.

Blood seeps from the abdominal wound and pools around her on the floor. The blood stains your boots.

You cradle her head in your hand. Her eyes are closed but she's... Smiling.

You shake yourself from shock and start fumbling with a pouch on your belt, eventually you fish out what you're looking for. A bag of Styptic.

You tear open the bag and dump its contents onto the wound, then put a piece of gauze over it and compress the wound.

"MEDIC!" You call.

You hear gunshots. Rapid, from multiple guns.

You barely notice past the wounded child bleeding out in front of you.

The shots get closer.

You hear footstep behind you and turn to look.

A medic is standing in the doorway, seemingly taken aback by the situation.

He takes out his radio and starts to say something, but is cut short by a bang and a spray of blood.

The medic's brains are splattered across a wall, and his body falls limply forward. Blood and gore smeared across his person.

A moment later, the medic's killer sweeps through the doorframe.

She's wearing a tank top, holding an M4, and is completely covered in blood.

Her face is contorted in an inhuman rage, her eyes ablaze with the wrath of hell.

You scramble to your feet and start to draw your knife, but before you can get the blade out of its sheath she slams the butt of the rifle into your right hand, the pain causing you to drop the knife.

She grabs the knife mid-air, and slams it upwards.

You see the blood. The pain never comes.

Your lifeblood spills from your throat and through your grasping hands. You fall to your knees.

The girl levels the rifle's muzzle with your face.

You don't hear the bang.
>>
No. 922065 ID: 094652

Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow
Gauze
Sutures
Cauterize
Something
Anything
NOW NOW NOW
>>
No. 922068 ID: f1a100

This is rather disorienting. Fuck idek who is still saveable and who tf is in play right now.
>>
No. 923210 ID: 456b73

The soldiers brains are scrambled inside his helmet by the match-tip bullet. And his body collapses to the floor in a limp heap.

Your name is Chloe Angelica Lynch, callsign; Karma.

You are a former Delta-force operative, highly trained, highly decorated. You have killed 93 human beings in the 24 years you have been alive.

That number is now 95, counting the medic and soldier you just killed.

That's irrelevant right now.

All that matters is one girl, the one that's bleeding out on the floor in front of you.


You sling the M4 over a shoulder and crouch next to Borya, you use the soldiers knife to cut her shirt away. Bullet to the abdomen, didn't hit any organs, but it did rupture an artery, based on the quantity and color of the blood seeping from the wound.

She's unconscious, and she's... The crazy fucken bitch is smiling.

You need to close up the wound, the soldier you wasted poured a shit-ton of styptic into the entry wound, but did fuck-all about the exit wound.

You tilt Borya sideways to get a look at the exit wound, it-... Shit.

It's about two inches in diameter, the muscle is pulverized.

Styptic wont cover it.

You need to think of something, fuck fuck fuck. Think!

What if you-

You scramble around your back pocket for a lighter, and pull out a cheap Bic. Good enough.

You retrieve the soldier's knife, and clean it off as best you can.

You then start heating it up with the lighter.

Once heated to the point of warping, you roll Borya over and...

And press the side of the knife into the bleeding wound.

Blood hisses and flesh burns. The horrible stench of melting human skin permeates the air.

You grimace, grit your teeth, and force yourself to keep going.

Borya remains unconscious.

When you pull the blade away, the wound is still bleeding, but looking marginally more intact.


You rush for the medics bag, and retrieve more Styptic and a length of gauze.

You apply the Styptic liberally to the exit wound, then wrap gauze around her entire abdomen tightly, covering both wounds.

You hear cars speeding down the street outside the house.

You already killed all of the soldiers, so they pose no further threat.


"Fuck." You curse under your breath.

You regard Borya's unconscious form; you have to get her out of here, you have to. She's all that matters.

You lift Borya as carefully as you can, and carry her in your arms out of the room.

Halfway down the stairs, she opens her eyes. Her smile disappears, replaced by a contemptuous scowl.

"Why are you carrying me, and why does it smell like Mark's cooking?" She asks, her voice a slightly peeved monotone.

You laugh at that. Mark never could cook for shit. "You got shot, also you got shot." You reply.

She stares at you for a moment, as if searching for something in your features. "Adrenaline must be dimming the pain." She says.

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and Borya takes a look at what used to be her living room.

There are several dead soldiers strewn about, gore and blood are smeared across the walls and floor, and most of the furniture lies in ruin.

"Your work?" Asks Borya, her unsettling monotone never faltering.

"Yeah." You reply, stepping over a corpse and through the front door you kicked down.

Once outside, you immediately feel something is amiss.

Then you realize, there are more cars parked out front than before.

You're about to rush back into the house, when a voice calls out; "FREEZE."

As if this had summoned them from thin air, a dozen soldiers appear from behind various objects. All of them training their guns on you.

You're fast, but a single wrong move here would be your death. And Borya's.

"Shit." You say hiss.

You look down at the her; Borya's eyes are closed, and if you couldn't feel her breathing you'd think she was asleep. She's faking it.

The same voice who'd called out before speaks again. "Chloe Lynch, callsign Karma, former green beret and one of the best soldiers I've seen."

You know that voice.

And a moment later, your suspicions are confirmed when the owner of the voice steps into view from behind an APC. General Arthur Wall. He used to give orders directly to your squad. A 51 year old who never saw combat in his life, you never really liked him.

He looked the same as he ever did, like a manicured, decorated, patriotic asshole. He was wearing his dress uniform, like always. Each step he took set the medals and commendations strewn across his chest jingling. He normally wore a baseball cap, but seems to have forgone it this time, showing off his completely grey hair, styled into a crew-cut. His face was normally all frown lines and angry wrinkles, but right now he had a sort of victorious smirk.

"You've killed quite a few of my men, Karma. Or did the girl help?" He asks, getting closer and closer.

You don't move from your spot on the porch. "Good to see you too, general. They got in the way." You say.

The general loses his smirk. "Of what Karma? The girl? She's not your problem anymore. Just hand her over." Says Wall.

You don't speak.

He keeps getting closer.

"Hand her over, Lynch! That's an order!" He's shouting now.

You remain silent.

He grabs Borya's forearm.

Before you have time to react, Borya leaps from your arms and draws herself close to Wall. He jumps back in shock, but doesn't release her arm. You can hear the soldiers around you tense.

Borya whispers into the general's ear, and you strain to hear. Her voice is fervent and baleful. "Fuck that, and fuck you. Burn in hell, bastard." She hisses.

Then she's moving again, she bites the general's ear and-...

And tears it off with her teeth.

The general releases her arm, and clutches the side of his mangled head, screaming.

Borya spits out the chunk of flesh. Then she just stands there, blood streaming from her mouth.

And she smiles.

You grow sick to your stomach.

She stands there, staring into the eyes of the shocked soldiers surrounding them, the agonized cries of the general ringing out in a macabre symphony that she seems to revel in.

She... She's horrifying.


For a moment, you think everyone is too shocked to move. But then two of the soldiers lower their rifles, and approach Borya and Wall.

One of the soldiers lifts Wall by a shoulder and carries him off, while another gets still closer to Borya.

He raises his hands in a show of peace, and speaks. "Miss, I'm going to need you to cooperate with me. Please throw all your weapons to the ground." His voice is trembling.

Borya looks at you, and her smile fades to a scowl.

"Do it, Borya." You say.

She sighs, but still unholsters her Glock and throws it to the ground. Then she does the same with the punch-blade.

The soldier stows the weapons in a bag on his hip, then speaks again. "Now I-I need you to hold still while I put handcuffs on." He says, slowly grabbing the cuffs from his belt.

Borya holds her hands out in front of her.

The soldier slowly puts the cuffs on, his hands shaking.

Once Borya's cuffed, the soldier leads her away towards one of the vehicles.

Another soldier leaves his position behind cover and approaches you. This one has his rifle raised, and seems completely calm.

"Drop your weapons on the ground, now!" He says, rifle trained on your head.

You grudgingly throw the M4 on the ground in front of you, and hold out your hands to be cuffed.

The soldier cuffs you, and leads you at gunpoint to the back of one of the APC's.

The vehicle is full to the brim with soldiers, all of them pointing rifles at either you or Borya, who's also seated in this APC.

You're sat down next to Borya, who is staring straight through a soldier across from her.

The APC's back doors are closed, and a soldier next to you pulls a syringe out of a bag on his hip.

He jabs the needle into your shoulder, and you immediately start feeling sleepy.

After a couple seconds, it's far too difficult to remain conscious.

The endless abyss of drug-induced sleep overtakes you.
>>
No. 923315 ID: 706014

>>923210
This is an official update. I forgot the subject field.
>>
No. 923331 ID: 2202fb

>>923315
Okay

The length was a pretty good indicator tbh though.

Still seems like we will need to wait for the next update before we can really make suggestions however.
>>
No. 924065 ID: 9014b9

Your palms are sweating, your heart races. Fear keeps you frozen in place.

Your name is Borya Ra Burkouskie, and you thought the nightmares had stopped.

But this has to be a nightmare, it has to be!

You know it is.

Because Karma lies dead at your feet.

Her blood spills into an ever widening puddle on the cobblestone, her pale face and damaged body illuminated by the streetlight above you.

You fall to your knees.

You put a hand on her chest, and feel the bullet laceration; her tank top wet with blood she spilt for you.

"Why?" You whisper, barely able to hear yourself.

"Why? Why? WHY?!" You shout, slamming a fist against her cold and stiffening form. "You fucking idiot! You dumb fucking bitch! Why would you do this?! WHY?!"

She died for you, she took a bullet for you. Why? You're worthless, a monster that can only destroy. Why would she ever sacrifice for you?

It's wrong, it's all wrong. No, no this isn't right at all. YOU should have taken that bullet, YOU should have died.


Suddenly, there's a sharp pain in your side.

You pull away from Karma and feel your abdomen; blood, blood is soaking your shirt.

You look down, at the bullet wound; at the death you deserve.

And smile.



You've got a horrible headache, your forehead is burning, your side hurts worse than you knew was possible, and you feel sick to your stomach.

You're alive, and that fact alone is enough to make you furious.

You crack open your burning eyeballs, and find your vision swimming. You know that feeling.

You're coming out of a barbiturate sleep. The fuckers drugged you.


You're tied down to a gurney, an IV tube hangs from your right forearm, and your clothes are in tatters, cut to pieces by medical scissors.

The walls, ceiling, and floor of the cramped room you're in are made of metal, and a steel bulkhead is set into the wall in place of a door.

It seems you're in a ship. Joy, you just fucking love boats.


The room is small and nondescript, the only thing besides your gurney that dares to punctuate the brutal minimalism of the cold metal is a wooden chair perpendicular to you.

A bulletproof camera sits in the far corner of the room, watching your every move. You manage to manipulate your arm enough to flip it off.

The bulkhead locks from the outside based on what you can see.

This isn't a room, it's a cell.


You sit in in your steel coffin for the better part of five minutes before the bulkhead opens.

A Caucasian, middle aged, balding man in a medical coat strides through. He's even carrying a clipboard. You already hate this guy.

He looks at you and smiles. "Ah, finally awake I see." He says, his voice chipper with a hint of snarky condescending. He reminds you of all of your teachers.

"Yes. But you knew that before you walked through the door." You say, not going through the effort of forcing an expression, and sticking to your resting scowl.

He huffs a dismissive laugh. "I'm doctor Pendanskie. How are you feeling miss Burkouskie?" He asks, sitting in the chair.

"Worse now that you're here." You say.

His fake smile doesn't falter, but his tone becomes slightly annoyed as he starts flipping through his clipboard. "Yes, your file said you have a temper. Now, miss Burkouskie, I'm going to say a series of words and phrases, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?" He asks.

You stare him in the eyes with the utmost contempt until he continues.

"I'll take that as a yes. Dog." He says.

"Roadkill." You reply.

"Food."
"Necessary."

"Gun."
"Beautiful."

"Death."
"Cause."

"Kill."
"Easily."

"Emotion."
"Meaningless."

"Love."
"False."

"Hate."
"You."

"Me."
"You."

"Anger."
"Justified."

"Home."
"Nowhere."

"Friends."
"Posers."

"Mother."
"Tolerable."

"Father."
"Tolerable."

"...Karma." He says.

This one makes you pause. You hate yourself for pausing.

She doesn't mean anything to you. She's just a casualty of your fucked up life.

Isn't she?
>>
No. 924069 ID: 18d2ab

>>924065
Wrong, as much as you may be persuaded to think that way, other people (Karma, your parents and "friends") are just as real and suffer problems in their lives, this brainwashing stunt is forcing you to be an empty machine without any ability to make its own judgements, those flashes of your past, the fact that you "can't" care for anyone wont change if you accept what the doc is telling you, if you listen to him in 5 years under their service you'll turn into a monstrosity so dehumanized, so evil that even you right now will be disgusted by it's existance, you're not gonna be a monster like that, you still have the ability to not regretfully turn into a minister of death that the world told you you are!
>>
No. 924108 ID: 2202fb

>>923331
Suspicion

not because of Karma the person, but because of the fact that he asked it.
>>
No. 924705 ID: c7e0ba

>This brainwashing stunt is forcing you to be emotionless.
Brainwashing? That's not how it works. You were born with sociopathy; it's an actual biological lack of the capacity for empathy.

>5 years under their service you'll turn into a monstrosity so dehumanized, so evil that even you right now will be disgusted by it's existance.
Can you dehumanize what's inhuman in the first place?


You narrow your eyes. "Trap question." You reply to the doctor.

He sighs. "We'll never get anywhere if you refuse to open up about your emotions." He says.

You wait for him to acknowledge the joke he just made, and when he remains silent, you realize something incredible.

He's being serious.

You burst out in laughter. Genuine, from the heart laughter. You haven't genuinely laughed in a long time. It lasts for a good five seconds before you compose yourself enough to speak. But you're still smiling like a loon.

"You seriously just said that? I'm tied down to a medical bed, captured and imprisoned, and you expect me to trust you? To 'open up about my emotions'? Sorry, billiard head, but the closest you're getting to me 'opening up' is the hole in my abdomen." You say.

He looks positively livid. And you relish every second of schadenfreude joy you derive from his displeasure. "Now, that is hardly necessary. I'm only trying to help you." He says, his tone indignant.

"Let me do you a favor and tell you to give your help to someone who wants it." You say.

"Young lady, I am trying desperately to-" he begins.

"And I'm trying desperately to get you to leave." You cut him off.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you're faster.

You give him the middle finger. "Shove that in your Bunsen burner and smoke it, baldy. I'm done talking." You say, plopped your head back down on the pillow.

He puffs up for a moment, as if about to lash out, before storming out of the room.

That went well. You didn't even get prescribed any antipsychotics.


You lie still in your gurney for a couple hours, trying not to think about how much your side hurts, before the door to your room opens again.

A soldier in navy camo fatigues steps through the door. He's African American, appears in his late twenties, and, to your surprise; is unarmed. "I'm lance corporal Heinz. I'm here to escort you to meet with the general." He says.

"When you say escort, I hope you mean carry, corporal ketchup. Because I'm not walking with this bullet hole in my side." You say.

"Don't bullshit me, you shrugged that pain off just fine before. You're walking." He says, beginning to undo the straps keeping you restrained.

Hmm. You could walk, though it would be painful, or you could insists that you be provided transportation. Or... Well, he is unarmed, and well within grabbing distance. It would be shamefully easy to break his neck. And perhaps these people need to be reminded that they are playing with a very dangerous person.
>>
No. 924706 ID: 094652

>Kill
You're in the enemy base, they're overstaffed and overorganized, and you're recovering from Death's Door. Attempting to escape now would be a death sentence.

Wait until they inevitably screw up from the war stress.
>>
No. 924711 ID: 132a57

>>924706
Actually, lets kill him. Just keep yourself strapped down somewhat so they dont just shoot you instantly. This isnt an escape attempt, it is more the principle of it.
>>
No. 924779 ID: 62e76a

>>924705
Snap out of it! Trying to disguise your anger as a snarky attempt to get away, kill and show a point to the guys. Yea their hospitality was less than pleasing but you can't go about causing a mess because you feel like a killing machine all of a sudden, take a break and clear up your head, stop convincing yourself that you're perfectly capable of being a one-woman army with no hope of coming back at the age of 8 (yes, you're very intelligent but you haven't even gone trough puberty yet)
>>
No. 925052 ID: 2202fb

>>924779
I thought she was 12...

We are a prisoner captured by hostiles. Regardless of how nice they are, they are enemies.
>>
No. 925072 ID: 719d94

Someone's got it out for you. I wonder why? Maybe it has something to do with the ear thing.

In fact it's kind of a surprise that you're alive at this point. You might be "the shark" from earlier, actually. Callsign fits... you've definitely popped out of the water and killed someone, and these assholes seem to think you're important enough to keep alive.

If you want to survive, you probably shouldn't kill this guy, you're in their territory and there are a lot of them. The more of them you fuck up, the sooner they decide you're not worth not killing. Though you might ask what kind of sadistic pedophile is getting off on your pain and whether or not you're currently talking to him.

Speaking of which, when you get to the general, ask him if losing one ear made him realize that the other one has to go too. If not, I don't really know what he expects from you.
>>
No. 925132 ID: fbfc06

>>924705
You had a mental breakdown earlier and started hating yourself after failing to comply with the dehumanized vision of yourself during the questions (hating oneself is a very human thing), if you were actually inhuman you wouldn't care the slightest what others are, they would come and go and you'll comply with whatever gives you the ability to act on your desire to kill, if you keep trying to convince yourself such thing you will keep stumbling on these little thing more and more and the cycle that will continue will make you super miserable, just accept that you do have a shred of humanity within yourself, that little part of you may make your life a bit better if you allow it to have more influence (not right now though).
As for your grand escape, you should go with a zero violence plan, appear to be the dumb, young 8yo you are, dont even think about making a point, this way if you get caught they will believe you're not that dangerous, allowing you to attempt multiple times if your attempts don't prove as successful as you hoped they would.
>>
No. 925287 ID: b146ba

>>925132
And if you do get out, their search for you won't be as intense, remember, don't make any point, don't act tough to the general (or whoever you'll be meeting), just stay low and appear harmless, your chances of survival and escape will be higher.
>>
No. 925307 ID: 0d37f9

>At the age of eight.
You're twelve.

>It's stupid to try an escape.
You never intended to escape after killing him, that would be suicide, you're not quite that stupid. You were just going to kill this one as a demonstration.

>Don't kill him.
Fine, corporal ketchup doesn't die today.

>You had a mental breakdown earlier and started hating yourself. Just accept that you do have a shred of humanity within yourself.
Drop it. Now.

>As for your grand escape, you should go with a zero violence plan.
Well you're just a bleeding heart humanitarian, aren't you?

>Appear harmless, don't act tough, keep your head low. They'll go easier on you, and it will be easier to escape.
You tore an ear off of a general while suffering from a bullet wound and surrounded by armed forces. It's a little late for the innocent girl act.

>Appear to be the dumb, young 8yo you are.
First off, you're still twelve. Secondly, fuck you too. You've got an IQ of 137.

You aren't planning an escape, yet. It's far to early to even think about how you would escape. For now, all you can do is pay attention and gather information.


"Alright colonial ketchup, I'm up." You say, sliding off the gurney and standing upright. The movement sends white-hot needles of pain up your side, but it's well below the level of pain you can swallow.

Heinz looks somewhat peeved, perhaps because of the nickname you've bestowed upon him. Doesn't really matter. He starts walking towards the door, and you follow.


You enter a long metal corridor. Doors down both walls. Lit by fluorescent lights.

There are two armed guards standing just outside of your door, both have rifles pointed at you. It seems they aren't ignorant to how dangerous you are.

Heinz keeps walking, and you follow behind. The guards with assault rifles bring up the rear, continuing to keep you at gun point.


You're led through a maze of steel passageways, till you finally go through a bulkhead and find yourself on the deck of the ship. It's freezing out. The sun is hidden behind a thick grey cloud layer, and an icy wind is blowing.

You're led down a walkway, and you finally get a full view of the ship while on it.

You recognize this type of ship, it's a supercarrier. About five times the size of a standard aircraft carrier. Nuclear engine. These things were invented to carry and deploy drones back during the Cold War with China. Supposedly they can carry around 100,000 strike drones. You have no idea why they're keeping you on one.


After walking what must have been a couple hundred feet, you arrive at a helicopter pad. There are three important looking people standing in front of the copter, and about a dozen armed security personnel positioned along the circumference of the pad.

You recognize one of the important looking people as General Arthur Wall, the right side of his head is heavily bandaged, and he's glaring daggers at you.

One of them is just a middle aged man with rectangular glasses in a suit holding a briefcase. You have no idea who he is.

And the last one... Is the president of the United States of America. Joan Boswell. She's 47 years old, has a face with wrinkles enough to reflect the stress of her job, and is wearing a suit that appears to have been selected from the discount rack at the thrift-store, based on its particular shade of pink.

She looks at you inquisitively. "Hello, Borya." She says.

You feel so, so...
>>
No. 925329 ID: 094652

Small?

Ask the president if there is any kind of plan somewhere. Of all the horrible, horrible things you've done, none of them would compare to participating in the total MAD apocalypse.
>>
No. 925349 ID: 719d94

Cold.

Did they seriously just have you walk out to the wet and freezing cold deck, in front of a bunch of random people, dressed only in tattered scraps of cloth? Seriously, somebody's getting off on this.

Anyway, if the president of the united fucking states is here to talk to you, it's probably important, and you're probably not going to like it so let's get it over with sometime before you die of hypothermia. The fuck does she want?
>>
No. 925364 ID: 2202fb

>>925307
this is surreal.

Well, now our new mission is to kill the president. Why? Cuz. The idiot who put her here with you needs to be spited for being such an idiot.

--

>drop it
what are you gonna do about it? :3
>>
No. 925366 ID: 2202fb

>>925364
Actually, scratch the kill the prez. Just start laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Then go up to her and high-five her. If she doesn't go for it, grope her boob (cuz holy fuck, even if you arent into that that would be so awkward for her and you will never get the chance to do so ever again) with the same hand.

Then ask in a light-hearted tone, what the fuck is going on and why the fuck you are here. Make it clear that you are on an adult's level mentally and make sure they understand that you have nothing to lose so threatening you really wont do much. They seem to have killed the one friend you had (karma. yes, she was a friend, and that is an okay thing to have). So yeah, you will probably die, but you will definitely go down fighting.
>>
No. 925389 ID: 7e3ccd

>>925307
Don't get all pissed off now, SHE'S THE FUCKIN' PREZ, you may be hobby-trained by your dad but a bunch of fully trained soldiers doesn't match up, hell one of 'em will be more than enough, you're capable and intelligent but don't get ahead of yourself, you're still a 12 yo with insufficient military training, besides, since this is the president you could drop the vicious altitude and make yourself presentable. Act calm and sensible but not cold, distant and murderous. Just appear as someone who's meeting the president for some high honor bullshit, and never, NEVER get cocky or angry, this is the president after all, and you don't want her to have the wrong (as of though right) assumption about you. This might be something big that you could benefit from in the best case, and if she's here just on a whim, then the same rule applies, don't make fuss and you wont get on her bad side, she might not know how dangerous you are, she's a politician not a soldier, so try to not threaten her with neck snapping, arm breaking and whole on fuckery you generally want, but shouldn't (and maybe secretly hate that you want to) do. If you still feel like you want to butcher someone in front of her for your stupid and senseless point just remind yourself how bad it could be having an entire army chase you down because the president herself ordered it.
>>
No. 925392 ID: 2202fb

>>925389
We are already dead. Plus, the president isnt magical. They are just another suit that happened to get picked for the job. Who cares what they think.
>>
No. 925396 ID: 2202fb

>>925392
Additionally, they arent all-powerful. They cant just send people after someone.
>>
No. 925397 ID: 7e3ccd

>>925392
>>925396
I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss such a thing, seeing how these suits aren't often the brightest, she could pull some heavy bullshit and questionably long lengths to fuck her over (looking at the real life president)
>>
No. 925403 ID: 7e3ccd

>>925397
And hey, you might try to live up to your dad as well by getting out of this in one piece.
>>
No. 925418 ID: 2202fb

>>925397
she could definitely try, but that doesnt mean she actually will be able to. The rest of the govt definitely wont let them. Plus, by the time they do get someone to go after us, we will have had months, if not years, of planning.
>>
No. 925454 ID: ffd308

So unimpressed.

>Small?
She's actually shorter than you.

You would describe her as... Frumpy.

>Did they seriously just have you walk out to the wet and freezing cold deck, in front of a bunch of random people, dressed only in tattered scraps of cloth? Seriously, somebody's getting off on this.
You'd bet good money on the general, who certainly has reason to resent you.

>>Drop it.
>What are you gonna do about it? :3
The better question is, what are you going to do about it? You're a delusional side effect of psychopathy, a figment of my madness- ...Wait, how did you use an emoticon when you're a disembodied-... We shall never speak of this again.


>Our new mission is to kill the president.
Why?

>Why? Cuz. The idiot who put her here with you needs to be spited for being such an idiot.
You're not that petty, or that suicidal. You'd be cut down by AR fire before you got within five feet of her. Besides, if you kill the president of the US, Russia's probably just gonna launch those missiles they're itching to hit the U.S. with. You would be taking out the leader of one of the superpowers, which would inevitably tip the MAD scales in Russia's favor.
You're not really keen on getting shot to death, or bombed to death. So you're just gonna not lunge at the national leader surrounded by fully armed, fully trained soldiers. Maybe later.

>Actually, scratch the kill the prez.
I'm glad you're being rational about this. Thank you.

>Just start laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Then go up to her and high-five her. If she doesn't go for it, grope her boob.
Aaaaannnd, moment's over. Why? Why would you do that?

>cuz holy fuck, even if you arent into that that would be so awkward for her and you will never get the chance to do so ever again.
That would be really fucking awkward for you too! Listen, you're not just gonna stride up there and grope the president of the United States.

...Even though part of you is tempted.

>Make it clear that you are on an adult's level mentally.
Yes, because the best way to do this is by opening dialogue with a boob-grab.

>They seem to have killed the one friend you had (karma. yes, she was a friend, and that is an okay thing to have). So yeah, you will probably die, but you will definitely go down fighting.
If they wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. If they wanted Karma dead, they would have killed her instead of loading her in the same APC as you.

You're valuable to them in one way or another, and you're going to milk that for every drop it's worth.


>Since this is the president you could drop the vicious altitude and make yourself presentable. Act calm and sensible but not cold, distant and murderous.
Yeah, no. She may be the president, but that also makes her the chief of the very same organization that shot, drugged, and held you captive. So as far as you care, she can go fuck herself. ...Except actually not because now you've got that image stuck in your head and death by gunfire is sounding better and better.

Fine. You'll be civil. But you're not bending over backwards for this poser.


"So, what'd I do to deserve a meeting with the president?" You ask.

She gives a small smile that only public speakers know how to use. "Oh you've done quite a lot. Your stunt back in Chicago, for instance. Single handed stealth infiltration. I guess you just impressed me." She says.

You return her smile with a perfect facsimile. "Bullshit. No way you read through the report. And if I recall, your platform all throughout the election was world peace. So why would an advocate for total peace be interested in a 12 year old with violent tendencies and no capacity for empathy? Aren't I the antithesis of your perfect world?" You ask.

Her smile falters for a half second before the mask is back up. "There's room for everyone in my version of America. Especially you, miss Burkouskie." Says the president.

"Tell that to the immigrants who are killed trying to cross your borders, or to the poor who die of drug overdoses in the slums of your cities. Tell that to them, and mean it. Then we'll talk about equality. But you didn't come here to discuss politics. Tell me, what part do I play in your master plan?" You ask.

Boswell completely loses the fake smile, and a look of contempt takes it's place. "I need you, miss Burkouskie, because of your unique gifts." She says. She then extends a hand to the man in the business suit, who hands her a PDA.

She begins to read from the device. "High functioning sociopathy, near total lack of empathy, very high intelligence. Reflexes that exceed all human standards. Violent tendencies and an aggressive nature. Tell me, what part of that doesn't sound like a perfect soldier? A super-soldier?" She asks.

"The part where I have no loyalty, or reason to be loyal to you." You say.

Boswell looks distinctly displeased. "I wish it hadn't come to this, Borya. I had sincerely hoped you would cooperate willingly. General, go ahead." She says. Before walking off with several soldiers and the guy in a business suit in tow.

General wall nods. Then says something into a microphone on his collar.

A moment later, Karma, severely beaten and handcuffed, is drug up onto the deck in front of you by two soldiers.

She looks up at you through a black eye and smiles. "Hey Borya. They put you on the same cruse ship as me? What're the odds. It's pretty nice here, but the masseuses are a little rough. I'd avoid the massage parlor if I were you." She says, coughing up some blood when she's finished the sentence.

You direct your attention from her back to the general. Scowling.

Wall looks unbearably complacent. He even goes so far as a smug smile. "Every time you disobey orders, or step out of line, Karma will get another visit to the 'massage parlor'. Do you understand? You'll be trained here, under me, until I deem you fit for combat. If you misbehave severely enough, I'll have you and Karma killed." He says.

You glare at him, livid. And remain silent.

"Is that understood?" He reiterates, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Understood." You hiss out through clenched teeth.

"Good." He says, and gives a jerk of his head.

Karma is drug off below decks, and a soldier behind you jabs a needle into your shoulder. Again, drug induced sleep overtakes you.

Music: https://youtu.be/_FrOQC-zEog

And as you slip out of consciousness, one thought rings through your head. A frenzied cacophony of hate:
One day, you're going to kill General Wall.


Chapter two, END.
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