The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
At first the fact that the near-unclad woman did not have an inkling of how to swim shocked Granny beyond action. AN interesting sensation, surely, which she had not enjoyed for quite some time. The shaking of her hands on her walking stick had given a particular close approximation of Parkinsons at that point. She did not quite dare recall how long she had looked at those moving hands of hers, not feeling that they did indeed peruse movement. But even as she contemplated undoing her shipwrecking of the two young lovers she saw that she had possibly not lost but gained from her actions. This revelation somewhat steadied her hands. And made her smile quite optimistically through the window she had been watching from. And watch those two she would. And lead them to their proper places.
Proper being, of course, what she decided. She resolved to follow the pair to where they were going and mark the location. If only she were a little better at sneaking. But right now she was a teacher here. And therefore she had good reasons for snooping everywhere. Yes, also in your bedroom.
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She was quite satisfied with the mans thick skull. A lovely quality to have. If he did not go overboard with that. Men usually did. Not that she thought badly about them, the just had this tendency towards doing stupid things for all the wrong reasons. The right reasons being, of course, hers. But enough fluttery thinking about men, she told herself, shaking her head slightly. You have come here to do a job, you better start doing it, old woman.
>> “The counselor huh? You wouldn’t happen to mean a Ms. Gemma Taylor, would you? I know her quite well.”
“Now let us find some ice for that head of yours.” She said, quite unimpressed by what he had just said. She even offered her arm for him to hold. Hold her. Matter-of-factly. The trunk had already begun hovering at her side again in imitation of a lost puppy. “And to answer your question: Yes she was one Miss Gemma Taylor. Quite handsome woman, is she not?” The last part was to see his reaction. She actually beamed up at him. I know few men who talk about knowing women like her 'well' this smile said. And those few, the smile continued to eloquently point out, are in a relationship with said woman.
The gravel path before them she walked with all the grace her arthritic bones could muster. It was not much, but it was something. Her tone turned admonishing again. “Should you experience said neurological symptoms, go to an ER. But enough of your pretty young head.” She shuffled along merrily. Merrily! The old woman really did not seem to know when she caused discomfort or unease. Or simply waltzed over it with a smile. Like waltzing over gravel paths.
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She practically snatched his head, either unaware or uncaring about any discomfort she might have caused. The boy seemed bright enough. The walking stick was not bothered by her movement at all. It even stepped out of the way, whisked really, but you get the gist. “Yes, yes, yes.” She said to herself as her fingers gently furrowed through George's hair. They even did so expertly, stopping at every bruise, then lightly fingering around it to assess size and damage. “Skull intact, skin not broken, hematoma, of course... but not badly... I seem to be getting soft.” A huff she gave at that. Half a laugh really. Her fingers spiderwebbed on, over the sides of the neck and even over his face, touching indeed expertly. Comforting but without the intimacy that would make things personal. They whisked aside dust and grime settled there comfortingly and her eyes looked just a bit unfocused as she was running through her mental checklist. Her eyes then focused on him sharply. “I don't mind you asking at all.” Her voice sounded somewhat pleasant. “I have come to teach classes here. The counselor recruited me herself.” Her voice sounded slightly . In contrast her eyes glanced very sharply through her glasses. Watery with age as they were they could be quite a sight from so close. Her hands were locking his head in a grip not too hard to break but still a hold, as she gazed in his. “Are you presently experiencing dizziness, nausea or blurry vision? And do not try to hide things from me.” She was looking for signs of said things even as she spoke.
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As soon as the key was punched in and the gate was swinging open, the trunk, a heavy thing of wood that seemed last to have been modern at least a century ago, wrapped in the emerald tone and silently moved onto the other side of the gate and settled again on the gravel path. Judging by the crunching noises it made it must be heavy indeed. The Granny stepped up to where George was presently standing. Stepped in front of him in fact. Her one free finger jabbed at his chest. Jabbed not once, but twice. And as far up as she would comfortably go. Somewhere at his sternum. “You, Mr Cervantes, have been hit on the head by me.” There even was a hint of pride in her voice at that. Then she smiled at him. Sheepishly. Sheepish! An old woman like her. The smile was replaced by a much sterner expression. And underlined with another jab. “So let me be the judge of whether you need a day in bed. And yes, I am qualified to send you there. And I might... simply drag you there.” Her voice did not make it sound like a threat. Only like the thing it was. A possible reality that was now kindly elaborated upon. “Now bend your head please.” The curtsy the indeed pronounced sincerely and not as a threat. In the manner that left him a choice. He had one indeed. To either let her do this now, or be manhandled and let her do this after.
Her fingers were up, both hands awaiting his head, one way or the other. Her feet were firmly planted on the gravel path. She was Granny Stephens in nursing mode. And this sick puppy did not want to take his medicine. The stick was standing upright, wrapped in green where her hands had left it. One bit of gravel on her hand was enough. Especially now. "My name is Stephens. You may call me Granny. Young man." That she said like it was a pronouncement of honor. To a man more than half her age she would have been slightly more courteous. Slightly.
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Her ears were old and, pardon the language, a piece of crap. Same went for her legs. And her joints. And almost everything else as well. Luckily her brains showed no hints of deterioration. Not that she would know much if they did. But they did not, and Granny was quite glad about that. She had a boatload of Kids to take care of now. One little brat more insolent then the other. The smallest ones, as she had promised when she met the woman that had gotten her this employment, got cookies and stern admonitions for class. If they took her class. She was now a teacher without qualifying diploma. Not that she needed one for that class: Mutation Control. Given is sessions to no more than five kids at a time. If they qualified. Given by her because she was the most experienced mutant around. Some fifty-odd years of using a mutation did that to you. You could think up exercises in your sleep and maybe just prevent the kids from doing stupid things.
Stupid things like making her stop from a walk by shouting in the pool area. She had been exploring the multitude of passages the Mansions architect had envisioned. People got lost here semi-regularly, and she intended to have this not encumber her any more than her old legs. So walking through every corridor she could reach was a solution to both her joint problems – you had to walk yourself warm to avoid pain if you were old like her – and her inadequate knowledge of the layout of her new residency. A layout that presently afforded her a good look at said pool area. An area in which was shouted.
A wooden chair was on fire also.
She tsked to herself. This would not do. The chairs were good and expensive. They would not be ruined by some teenagers playing relationship crisis. And a relationship crisis it was. She knew this much not by the words that were said but by the stances of him and her. She did not know either of them. This situation would be rectified later on. But what she did know was that she would not have issues like that burn her pool area. Also she would not have the young man ruin a perfectly good day for a woman.
Heads needed to be cooled. A chair needed to be put out. The solution to both problems: The big amount of water present at the center of said pool area. And the fact that a powerful telepathic was standing not 20 meters from where the two were having their fight might have had a calming influence as well. She certainly hoped so as she dumped both the chair and the man into the pool with a thought. For good measure she took off the mans shirt. Seeing that it ripped into a hundred pieces she tsked again. Now she should have done that a bit more gently. But when a fight happened, she was not gentle. Especially if one fighting was a man. And the opposition was female.
This relationship would be fixed. Today. She would see to that. It would probably take both of them dumped into the pool for that. And for the afterthought it was, she did indeed add the girl to the floating chair in the pool with a sigh. Her she eased down a bit more gently, too.
But she had never promised to be gentle with the older ones.
She was slightly angry with herself. Why? Because as soon as she was spoken to suddenly from behind, she spun around with something akin to a snarl. Her white teeth were barred in mockery of a smile. And for just a second she cursed her old legs at being so slow. Someone had snuck up on her. From behind. Her walking stick was enveloped in an emerald green glow and flew from her hands, ready to strike at the whomever...
Only that she followed a few heartbeats behind, carefully twisting with some remnant of grace and manners. With all the grace of a seventy-plus lady in fact. Calmly looking around. Blink. A cop, badge gleaming in the sun. Blink. Her cane had nearly taken his head off. Blink. She was snarling at the man. Blink. He was sitting in the dust, none to pleased at the fact that her cane had found its mark. Blink. She was seventy-two. Blink, blink. Those days were long gone. The days when she snarled at coppers and beat people with her cane. Well maybe not the latter days. But the first ones were definitively over.
The cane snapped into her hands with an apologetic speed, green glow fading as she gripped it. She now had grime on her fingers, as she was well aware. Darn gravel paths and dust.
“I'm very sorry, young man." She closed her eyes and shuddered. She wrapped him in her glow, picked him up with the gentlest of touches she could manage, physically forcing him to stand. "Please do not sneak up on Old Women like that. They might have a heart attack.” Her snarl had transformed into a smile. A thin smile. She dusted off herself slowly with one hand. The Police. Argh. Bad. Entrance. She would not get a heart attack and die off it. She sooner would crash herself with a car. And she could do that. But this man might not need to know.
“Letting me in would indeed be sweet of you. Especially since you might have a concussion. How many fingers am I holding up?"
Smile. Old Lady Alto. Smile. She had not just attacked a Cop. Nope. And for the record: It was three fingers.
Iron gates. Of course they would have iron gates. Any building named Mansion would be nothing without them, their fanciful swirls of steel making them nothing but uninviting. You could see a gravel path leading up to the old brick building beyond. And a solid wall to go along with that that blocked sight of most everything else. Of course the Taxi had taken off with a gravel-throwing move immediately after she had left it. The driver had known what he was getting into and he wanted out of it apparently. Not that there was much to guess. Only to stare at. Her big wooden trunk had floated along of course, her walking stick had as well, until she had it firmly in her hand. Both items were not settled on the ground near the entrance. One still in her hand, the other just lying on one side. The driver really had been a bit unsettled by her. And now his car was already nearing the point of where it would be out of her sight. Into the trees, farther down the road.
Why were they always afraid? It was not like she was a dangerous person. Well not that much. She was old. And wearing a flowery hat, a gray costume of finest tweed and some shoes that were better left unspoken of. She sighed, looking at those doors. The Mansion better had a garden to fit its name. She would need to have herbs there, for cooking. And she would enjoy flowers. And not a kid in the world would hinder her.
Pushing the button on the bell took her no more than a thought. It never did. And why use your arms when they were hurting? She was an old mutant. And she was proud of what she was. So very proud. And she had come here to teach, at an invitation. They would all learn from her, those children. At lest she hoped there were children. She could not hear any of them around. Maybe they were up there, in the building. Wait? Was that a fireball streaking in the sky? She pushed the button again. For good measure.
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She was greeted at the Hotel by a rouge grinning in her face. How she knew he was a rouge? Well by his words for one, for another by his looks. Not by his suit, that fitted him quite well, it was something about him that made her thing of something she could see in the mirror sometimes. Mischief. She gave him a very knowing smile. One very calculated smile. Not necessarily just for him but also for the others that had just been sitting in the car with her and promprtly begun ignoring her as soon as the door had closed. They had talked so much of business it was tiresome. Them it had made somewhat irate, herself it had made somewhat bored. These men were really slow sometimes. They had talked about this for a while now. Half a year in preparations. And now a rouge grinning in her face. She gladly took his hand to get out of the car and escape the aura of boredom. The man holding her hand even had the manners to make indecent compliments to her. Now this was a game she could play.“Now, now, there are other ways I can make you weep. You might even enjoy it.” Her French was – oddly maybe for the American she was – perfectly accented. She had had time to prepare herself for this gig. And Antonio had not squandered money on having her taught. He had thrown it out so that she might be a valuable member of the crew. A perfect high-class accent in that voice, that was whispering in the ears of the stranger. A perfect pair of legs she showed him. She would be the interpreter, or so the others thought.
Maybe they thought something more about her, too. Something less than savory. If she had cared about such things as taste. Or what other people thought of her. She was a woman. She was mind-foggingly beautiful. She knew it. And she used that to her advantage. She would not rot in some island-hell while the whole world waited for people like her. Men looked for beauties like her to carry home as prizes. Or to Paris, the city of love. Only that she was more than just a prize. And only Antonio knew that yet. He might reveal it to the others soon. Or might not. Their alliance for this job was tenuous, as these things went.
Such thoughts on her mind she stalked into the hotel like a predator on prowl. Let the man deal with each other. Especially the pretty ones. “Antonio Meraz and companions. We have booked the suites.” Again her French was flawless. And the livered person behind the entrance-counter, an old man with stately aura, smiled brightly. “Of course, Madmoiselle.” He did not even look twice at her scandalous dress. This really was a measure of the quality this lodging offered. Another indicator came in the form of an errand-boy, also in Livery. Several others were fussing over her companions and her luggage already. This one though nodded to her and asked her to follow. Not without eying her dress though. In an appreciative manner. The very flat stare from behind the counter was everything to get him running though. She did not do this intentionally... most of the time. Now was not one of them. The men could follow her like lost puppies. Now she would take a bath. Have some champagne. And finally fix her hair properly.
A bath had rectified many ills indeed. Her hair had its lustrous shimmer back and was now piled on her head in a bun. She had taken on the appearance of a secretary. Complete with rimmed glasses and rhinestones around her neck holding them. The blouse and skirt molded to her form but obscured rather than revealed. In a most calculated fashion. It was business time. The men had been arguing louder since she had gone into the bath, all crowding in the sitting room around glasses of liquor, filled with slowly melting Ice. “We need to find us a local, Ben, we really do. Otherwise we have no chance at this.” The speaker was one of the more qualified members of the group. Emilie was inclined to trust his judgment. And what they were doing here? They were going to rob a grand show of Jewelry that had been assembled for only this once. A show of wonders in Gold and Silver, Gems and wood. They were going to rob several of the worlds best goldsmiths. At once. In the city of love. Emilie was quite excited about the prospect. But now they had another problem on their hands. And if she knew her bickering companions she would have to solve it for them.
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Did Granny let the obscene man leave? Yes. Of course she did, though she did it grudgingly. Grudgingly and with a smile that very much matched that of the child in her arms. An old cat that was playing with her food, she really was. And she almost purred with the pleasantry of the situation. If it had not been slightly bitter. She had won at a price the man would have to pay. And maybe she. And maybe every other mutant on the street, the country, the planet. She was not arrogant enough to think that she was responsible, no, but representative, yes, that she was.
But there was a child around. One she had her arms around. The cane dutifully came back to her. And she let go of the child. She would have come down to her level of sight, but her joints prevented that, so her friendly smile would have to suffice. “Now I think we should have an ice cream. I think we deserve that.” She began to thump-thump walk down to street, leaving incredulous people behind like it was a totally common occurrence that they did look at her that way.
An ice cream parlor was just around the corner. She knew that. She hoped that it was still there at least. So she walked.
“And now you can tell me a bit about yourself. If you want to.” Thump, her stick made on the ground. She looked old again.
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That voice. The old woman stared at the gray-haired man. Blinked twice. The light in her eyes changed. They were sharper now, but unfocused. Focused on something different one could say, not on the face. To her old ears his voice sounded different, and yet not. She knew now. And proceeded to down her glass of whiskey in one long gulp. One comfort was that her mind still was working perfectly. It was a small comfort. After all these years she had found him again. At a Bar no less. Andre. Such a long time ago she had been in Paris. Such a long time ago it had been they met. Such a song time that now it was only:
Memories.
~ ~ ~
Paris – 1958
The woman named herself Emilie. Not that it was her real name, but men ogling at her tended to forget whatever they had been thinking at her pronouncing it. Well they were normally ogling at parts of her, but that did not keep her from feeling a certain smug satisfaction at wiping their minds. The name had traveled with her to Paris in one uncomfortable, clattering metal something named an aircraft. Machine from hell that it was. It had shaken her, cost her hours of sleep and actually made her hair look like something an exorcist might take interest in upon exiting into the sunlight of France.
Her legs had taken a slight wobble that her make companions were only too glad to steady. Proactive as they were they had not even let her step down the ladder onto the airports field alone. And the stewardesses had only looked mildly horrified at a group of three men escorting a single woman. Mind you, all three men were of the dark-and-handsome kind. Be-suited as they were it was somewhat of a mystery to the stewardesses why they did not support the usual mix of folders and file-coffers. The fact that their eyes went down to where her dark red dress clung to Emilie's figure leaving only a semblance of modesty was fine with her. But maybe not with the watchers. She did not care. Especially since the looks did not have to travel far down. Her equally red lips here curved into a sensuous smile and her dark eyes looked straight ahead. A car was waiting for them. Something expensive no less. She faced the companion to her left.
“This looks quite good actually. I think I could learn to live like that.” Her voice was rich as her lips, curved around his ears with a smile in the tone. A teasing smile. He gave her a laugh back. “You live like that since I know you. And that is half a year today.” His voice said it was an accomplishment that he had not found another during that time. Her smile knew better. Her hand knew better, petting the chest lightly.
Half a year since Antonio's – Not his real name, but who needed those – fortunes had changed. Half a year since the former petty criminal had found the perfect woman in a very much unwomanly establishment. She had sat at the bar and drunken a man under the table. The literal table. There were several bodies strewn around the one she was lounging at. Sitting was too common a word for her. And much too civil. She could make ones blood boil with her legs. In the end he had only been left sitting because he had cheated as those eyes and her voice asked him for a drink together.
And now he was in Paris with her. And two companions. For the heist of their lives. They sat in the car. The woman laughed again. It was a Royce. Because nothing would go quite like it. It smelled of leather and tobacco smoke. Everything was perfect. Nearly.
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"And help you shall get." Granny announced, wiping saltwater from her face with her sleeve. She would sit quietly now, drinking her tea. Emptying the cup. And maybe hum an old song or two. For this is what old people did. What you wanted them to do sometimes. And nothing more. No flying cars. No flying people. There would be enough of that later.
Even as the businessman broke into his angry tirade, Grannys arms wrapped around Kaitlyn in a grip that was physically weak. Her old hand did not carry the force of your an more, the fingers spindly and easily broken, joints swollen with disease only painfully kept in check be a number of medications. What her hands did carry though was warm reassurance. He was a Grandmother putting hand on a child. Not violently, protectively wrapping her hands around her head until her ears were covered.
A child need not hear that language. What did not happen though as she did this was the clatter that could be expected from a walking stick falling on the ground to join the trashcan. It did not fall, instead being enveloped in a green light, standing up straight.
Grannys hands shook lightly on the child's head, her fingers not heavy, but light like birds wings. Her bones seemed as hollow. But they were there. Her old eyes were alight with something like rage. Her stick rose even as the man turned, oblivious to the danger he had just turned his back on. People on the walkway scattered as the cane flew by them like a thrown spear of green.
It poked the man straight in the back. And not too gently at that. He turned around huffing even more obscenities, not knowing quite what had hit him. That was until the green glow enveloped one of his ears and was bearing down on him. “Young man...” Grannys voice was still a feeble thing, only holding a sharp edge now, and not one of beauty any more. “ you will not use this language in presence of children and your elders. You will...” and at this point he was beat over the head by the moving stick. He gave a most satisfying yelp.“...apologize for your bad manners. And until you find civil words in your mouth my cane will beat you.” switch. Yes it did.
Only slowly her hands removed themselves from Kaitlyns ears and settled on her sounders, trying to stabilize and old womans failing legs a bit.
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She casually sipped from her glass, appreciatively eying the almond-colored liquid inside. The she gave the strong alcohol a whiff of her nose. Laphroaig if she was not completely mistaken. Or out of her senses with age. But really, a good year. Smokey and Misty, like Scottish mists indeed. A good pick-me-up indeed. One that had decades of experience at doing that nonetheless. “Hello young man.” Her voice, once a rich thing, now was thinned by age. Not quite frail, but definitively old. Just something that had once been a nice Soprano. A voice that had entranced men. Men like the one sitting next to her at a near-deserted bar. (Pff the youth today, no balls any more. They always look at me like I'm some monster) She eyed him up and down once. Ok maybe twice. She might be old and her eyes not what they once were, but she still could look. And she could still smile. White teeth lit up in that face.
Indeed he had something familiar about him, something that tickled the back of her overstuffed memory banks. Something that made her think of days long past, when her joints had not begun to ache at the cold outside or at the changing weathers. But those times were long gone. And the man was maybe 50. But he was... Something that wanted to make her smile.
Slightly waving with a hand, she pointed along. A small sweet smile, one that old people usually sported for the visit of their favorite grandsons. “Do come over here and keep and old woman company, will you?” Not that she left him much of a choice at that. The emerald color was already beginning to wrap around him, a very gentle grip. Nothing to fear. Nothing violent. Just as the others had been, he was simply lifted off the floor (complete with stool under him) and deposited neatly by her side, the other stool swapping places with the one he occupied. Of course the glass bobbed along neatly. Not a drop of liquid was spilled. No need to waste things after all. And no need to call her sloppy. She was only half-conscious of what she had done. After so long working with her power things jut came to her, things just happened around her. It was as if one possessed another pair of arms. Appendages that you had grown used to so much they worked without so much as second thoughts. She wasn't even aware any more that some people would have called this an impressive display of power. Not necessarily the carrying along, but the control she exerted. They were only her viridian arms after all.
She had even enough free mind-time to note that he was also drinking Whiskey. And a good beverage at that. The man had taste. She blinked at him, nicely. "A man with taste." Smile, Granny, smile. Something itched her memory again.
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