The Ballad of Ratta: A Descent into Madness

 

Part I: The Siren's Final Song

The Königsplatz Arena blazed with forty thousand points of light cell phones held aloft like digital stars, swaying in perfect synchrony to the voice that filled every corner of the cavernous space. Seraphina Vane stood center stage, draped in a gown that seemed woven from moonlight itself, her trademark platinum hair cascading past her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. When she sang, grown men wept. When she moved, the world held its breath.

"Thank you, Berlin!" she called out, her speaking voice somehow as musical as her singing, that peculiar gift that had catapulted her from obscurity to superstardom in just three years. "You've been absolutely magical!"

The roar that answered her shook the foundations. Sera as her inner circle called her—felt the familiar rush of euphoria that came with this moment, the apex of performance when the boundary between artist and audience dissolved entirely. At twenty-six, she had conquered every major venue on three continents. Critics called her "the voice of a generation." Fashion magazines declared her the most photographed woman of the decade. Her latest album had spent fourteen consecutive weeks at number one.

She was untouchable. Immortal. A goddess of the modern age.

That was on a Friday night in late October.

By Sunday morning, Seraphina Vane had vanished without a trace.

The narrative unfolded with the predictable hysteria of the social media age. Concert footage showed her leaving the arena through the VIP exit at 11:47 PM, flanked by two bodyguards, waving graciously at the cluster of fans who'd waited in the cold autumn drizzle. Security cameras captured her climbing into a black Mercedes, alone—she'd dismissed her entourage, wanting to walk the riverside alone, she'd told them. She'd done it before in other cities. Just an hour to decompress, to remember she was human.

The Mercedes was found abandoned near the Spree River at dawn, driver's side door hanging open, her phone on the passenger seat, its battery dead. One of her custom Louboutin heels lay on the cobblestones nearby, as if she'd been running.

Then: nothing.

The investigation consumed headlines for weeks. Interpol became involved. Conspiracy theories bloomed like toxic flowers across the internet. Had she been kidnapped by obsessed fans? 

Murdered by a stalker? 

Swept away by some clandestine intelligence agency? 

Had she staged her own disappearance, overwhelmed by fame?

Her mother appeared on television, weeping, begging for information. Her producer offered a million-euro reward. Vigils were held in major cities worldwide.

But Seraphina Vane was gone, as completely as if she'd never existed at all.

The world mourned. The world moved on.

The world forgot.

Part II: The Architect of Abomination

Six miles southeast of Berlin's glittering center, pa2st the industrial estates and the crumbling Soviet-era apartment blocks, stood the Blackwood Estate—a moldering Victorian pile that had somehow survived the bombings of 1945, though one might argue it would have been a mercy if it hadn't. The locals avoided it. Teenagers told stories about it. The municipal government had tried to condemn it twice, but the paperwork kept getting lost, and the inspectors who ventured out to assess it invariably found reasons not to enter.

If they had entered, if they'd descended through the wine cellar and found the concealed door behind the collapsed rack, if they'd navigated the narrow stone stairs that wound down, down, impossibly far down into the earth, they would have discovered Professor Alistair Thorne's true masterpiece.

The laboratory sprawled beneath the city like a cancer, a vast network of converted Cold War bunkers that Thorne had been expanding for fifteen years. Fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly green pall. 

The air reeked of ammonia, formaldehyde, and something else something organic and wrong that caught in the back of the throat like bile.

Rows upon rows of steel cages lined the walls, most empty now, but their bars streaked with rust and substances best left unidentified. Surgical tables gleamed under articulated lamps. Computer monitors displayed scrolling genetic sequences, protein folding simulations, chromosomal mapping that would have baffled even Thorne's former colleagues the ones who'd expelled him from Cambridge, destroyed his reputation, called his theories "unethical," "impossible," "insane."

He'd show them impossible.

Professor Alistair Thorne was sixty-three, rake-thin, with yellowed fingers from chain-smoking and eyes that never seemed to blink quite normally. He'd once been handsome, they said, before obsession had hollowed him out from the inside. His hair, gone completely white, stood in wild tufts around his skull. He wore the same stained lab coat he'd worn for the past decade, its pockets bulging with syringes, scalpels, and notebooks filled with equations that spiraled into the margins like prayers.

His life's work, his magnificent obsession, was adaptation.

"The rat," he'd written in his journals, back when he still bothered to justify himself to an imaginary academic audience, "is humanity's shadow-twin. Where we build cities, they build warrens. Where we store grain, they gorge. 

They survived the Plague. They survived the bombs. They will survive the collapse of civilization itself. Rattus norvegicus is the ultimate survivor, and if we could harness that adaptability, that fertility, that pure, Darwinian persistence and marry it to human consciousness, to human creativity..."

He'd never finished that thought on paper. 

The possibilities were too vast.

The experiment required the perfect subject. Not just anyone would do. The transformation demanded a baseline of extraordinary qualities beauty, yes, but also vitality, genetic resilience, a certain psychological fortitude that most laboratory rats (human or otherwise) simply didn't possess.

When he'd seen Seraphina Vane's concert advertised on a billboard, something had clicked in his mind like a key turning in a lock.

Her.

Abducting her had been almost embarrassingly easy. One syringe, jabbed through her coat as she'd walked alone by the river, admiring the moonlight on the water. Two minutes of struggle. 

Then unconsciousness, and into the van, and away into the night while Berlin slept.

That had been eight months ago.

Part III: The Chrysalis of Agony

The woman who had been Seraphina Vane hung suspended in the center of Thorne's primary laboratory, her wrists and ankles bound in padded restraints connected to an articulated metal frame. Dozens of tubes snaked into her body IVs delivering his carefully calibrated genetic cocktails, monitoring cables recording every biological change, feeding tubes, catheters. She was naked, her skin mottled with injection sites and surgical scars.

She was also no longer entirely human.

The transformation had begun slowly, almost gently, with Thorne introducing the modified retroviral vectors in minute doses. Sera had spent the first weeks in a haze of fever and delirium, her body's immune system fighting desperately against the foreign DNA that was systematically rewriting her genome cell by cell.

The first changes were subtle: a coarsening of her hair, a slight elongation of her incisors, an inexplicable craving for raw grain. Thorne documented everything with the detached fascination of a naturalist observing a rare specimen. He increased the dosages.

The pain, when it truly began, was exquisite.

Sera would scream until her throat tore. 

The genetic restructuring affected everything simultaneously bones lengthening and reshaping with audible cracks, muscles tearing and reforming denser and stronger, her skull plates shifting as her face pushed forward into something that was neither quite human nor quite rodent. Her teeth fell out one by one, replaced by continuously growing incisors that she would gnash together unconsciously, producing a sound like scissors being sharpened.

Gray fur sprouted across her body in patches at first, then in waves, coarse and oily. Her hands and feet darkened, the skin hardening into leathery pads even as her fingers extended, tipped with translucent claws that curved like scimitars. 

Her tailbone erupted from her spine in a series of vertebrae that extended downward until a thick, muscular tail lashed behind her.

But the worst the absolute worst was her voice.

Thorne had been fascinated by her vocal cords, those remarkable instruments that had made her famous. 

He'd studied them extensively in the early weeks, taking tissue samples, mapping their structure. 

The transformation warped them beyond recognition. Her larynx restructured itself, the vocal folds thickening and shortening. When she tried to speak, to beg, to reason with her captor, only high-pitched squeaks and chittering emerged.

The first time it happened, Sera had broken down completely, sobbing without tears (her tear ducts had sealed), her body heaving with anguish that had no outlet. Her voice—the voice that had filled stadiums, that had been her identity, her power, her very self—was gone.

Thorne had recorded her distress with evident satisfaction. "Fascinating," he'd murmured, scratching notes. "Emotional centers remain fully intact and engaged. Consciousness preserved despite radical somatic alteration. Perfect. Perfect."

Months passed in that fluorescent hell. 

Sera's mind remained trapped in a body that grew increasingly alien. She could feel herself changing, feel the animal instincts rising to drown her humanity. 

The hunger was constant, gnawing, demanding. Her senses sharpened to agonizing acuity she could hear Thorne's heartbeat from across the laboratory, smell the individual components of his chemical solutions, see in near-darkness with perfect clarity.

Her body grew. And grew. 

The restraints had to be adjusted repeatedly as she stretched upward, her bones lengthening impossibly. By the seventh month, she stood seven feet tall when Thorne allowed her to stand at all a towering, muscular nightmare covered in sleek gray fur, her eyes now black and bottomless, her face an uncanny amalgamation of human and rat features that made her look perpetually hungry.

But inside that monster, Seraphina Vane still existed.

She remembered everything. The lights. The applause. The feeling of her voice soaring effortlessly through octave after impossible octave. She remembered her mother's face, her first kiss, the exact taste of her favorite coffee. In her darkest moments, she would try to hum melodies from her songs, and what emerged was a series of squeaks that nonetheless followed perfect pitch and rhythm—a ghostly echo of what she'd been.

Thorne named his creation "Ratta" with the casual cruelty of a god naming its creatures. He ran tests. Endurance trials. Intelligence assessments. Ratta performed them all with a mechanical compliance born of despair. What else was there to do? Escape was impossible. The restraints were unbreakable. The laboratory was a fortress.

Until the night Thorne made his fatal mistake.

Part IV: The Breaking Point

It was late—past three in the morning—when Professor Thorne received a call on the encrypted satellite phone he kept for his few remaining contacts in the black-market scientific community. Ratta, secured in her cage for the night, had perfected the art of appearing catatonic while remaining fully aware. Her large, black eyes were closed. Her breathing was slow and regular. But her ears—those enormous, sensitive ears—caught every word.

"Yes, yes, I understand the timeline," Thorne said irritably, pacing near his primary workstation thirty feet from her cage. "The delivery system is nearly perfected. Modified aerosol dispersal through the ventilation system of a major transit hub—I'm thinking Hauptbahnhof, maximum exposure... What? No, no, she's stable. More than stable. She's thriving."

Ratta's eyes opened a fraction.

"The pathogen is a variant of Yersinia pestis, yes, but with a twist—the genetic modifications I've introduced create a carrier state in rats and rat-human hybrids that's asymptomatic in them but catastrophically virulent to baseline humans. Patient Zero will be immune, propagating the plague while remaining functional... The projected mortality rate? Conservative estimates suggest seventy percent of exposed population within the first wave..."

Ratta's claws extended slowly, silently, gripping the bars of her cage.

"I know it sounds extreme, but consider the potential! A complete societal reset. The survivors will need to rebuild, and they'll need guidance from those of us who understand the new paradigm. I'll be indispensable. We'll be indispensable... Yes, she's the key. Once I release her into the urban environment, nature will take its course. She'll seek out others of her kind—standard rat behavior—but finding none, she'll interact with the human population, spreading the contagion through close contact, through the waste products her metabolism produces..."

Something inside Ratta's chest—something that was still Seraphina, still the young woman who'd dreamed of nothing but bringing beauty into the world—shattered like glass.

He'd turned her into a weapon. 

A plague vector. 

The destruction of hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, and she would be the instrument of it.

The rage that flooded through her was pure and absolute. 

It burned away the last of her compliance, her hope for mercy, her desperate belief that somehow this nightmare might end without her having to become the monster he'd made her.

Thorne continued his conversation, oblivious. He'd grown complacent. 

Ratta had been so docile lately, so broken. 

He'd reduced her sedative dosages, confident in her psychological subjugation.

He didn't notice when she began to work at the lock mechanism with her claws delicate, precise movements that her transformed hands were perfectly suited for. 

Her human intelligence, combined with rodent dexterity and those razor-sharp claws, made short work of the mechanism. The lock clicked open with a sound no louder than a breath.

Thorne heard nothing over his own voice describing mortality projections.

Ratta moved with inhuman speed and silence. 

One moment she was in the cage. 

The next, she was crossing the laboratory floor in a loping gait that was pure predator. 

Her tail balanced her perfectly. 

Her claws made no sound on the concrete.

Thorne turned, sensing something finally, and had time to register shock his eyes widening, his mouth opening to scream before Ratta was on him.

What followed was brief and brutal. 

Seraphina Vane, who'd never hurt anyone in her life, watched from somewhere deep inside as Ratta's claws opened Thorne's throat in a single swipe. 

The professor collapsed, making horrible gurgling sounds, his hands clutching uselessly at the wound.

Ratta stood over him, breathing hard, and felt nothing. No remorse. No horror. Just a vast, echoing emptiness.

As Thorne's life drained onto the laboratory floor, his eyes remained open, fixed on his creation with an expression that might have been terror or might have been hideously pride.

Part V: The Labyrinth of Memory

The laboratory felt different without Thorne's presence. Larger. Quieter. Ratta stood in the center of it, her massive chest heaving, blood drying on her claws. The primal part of her—the rat-mind that pulsed beneath her human consciousness—urged her to flee, to escape into darkness, to find tunnels and hidden spaces.

But Seraphina's mind, reasserting itself in the aftermath of violence, drove her to search.

She found Thorne's office adjacent to the main laboratory—a cluttered horror of filing cabinets, notebooks, and specimen jars containing things that had once been alive. His computer was still on, the screen displaying genetic sequences that meant nothing to her. But on the desk, a thick leather journal lay open, and even in her transformed state, Ratta could read.

She forced her new body to work with human precision, carefully turning pages with claw-tips that could easily shred the paper. 

Thorne's handwriting was cramped and manic, filled with equations and observations. Most of it was incomprehensible. But then, three-quarters through the journal, she found a section marked "REVERSAL PROTOCOLS."

Her heart oversized now, beating with the rapid rhythm of a rodent's accelerated.

"The transformation is theoretically reversible," Thorne had written, "given sufficient time and resources. The key lies in a controlled retroviral counter-sequence that would systematically deactivate the modified genes and reactivate the original human genome. However, the process would be exceptionally delicate. Any error could result in catastrophic genetic cascade failure. Estimated timeline for reversal: 6-8 months of continuous treatment. Required equipment: access to a Level 4 biosafety laboratory, synthesized counter-viral vectors (formula attached), and constant monitoring..."

The page continued with chemical formulas and genetic notation that danced at the edge of Ratta's comprehension. She'd been an artist, not a scientist. 

But looking at the equations, something in her enhanced brain perhaps a gift of Thorne's modifications, some increased capacity for pattern recognition began to parse meaning from the chaos.

She could be human again. 

Not immediately. 

Not easily. But possibly.

The revelation was almost as painful as the transformation itself. 

Hope, after months of despair, felt like acid in her veins.

But she would need help. 

She would need resources. 

She would need to survive long enough in this body to find someone who could interpret Thorne's work, someone who could.

A sound from above interrupted her thoughts. 

Footsteps. 

Heavy, booted footsteps crossing the floor of the mansion overhead. 

Multiple people. 

Voices calling out in German: "Polizei! Jemand hier?"

The police. 

Someone a neighbor, perhaps, or a concerned municipality worker had finally decided to investigate the Blackwood Estate. 

And they would be coming down to the laboratory any moment.

Ratta looked down at herself a seven-foot nightmare creature covered in blood. 

She looked at Thorne's corpse. 

She imagined trying to explain, trying to communicate with squeaks and gestures who she was, what had been done to her.

They would shoot her on sight. 

Or capture her. 

Put her in a different cage, study her, use her. She would never be free.

The footsteps were getting closer, searching room by room above.

Ratta grabbed the journal, clutching it to her chest. 

Then she moved through the laboratory with purpose, her enhanced senses mapping the space. 

There an air vent, far too small for a human but just right for something as flexible and powerful as she'd become. 

She wrenched the grate free with one hand and squeezed into the darkness beyond.

The ventilation system was ancient, part of the Cold War bunker's original construction. The shafts led upward, branching into a network that spread throughout the estate and beyond. 

Ratta climbed with her powerful limbs, her claws finding purchase on metal that groaned under her weight but held.

Behind her, she heard the police entering the laboratory. The shouts of discovery. The crackle of radios calling for backup, for medical teams, for specialists to contain whatever hellish scene they'd uncovered.

But Ratta was already gone, climbing through the veins of the city like a disease, like a ghost, like a memory of something beautiful that had been destroyed and remade into something terrible.

Part VI: The Underworld

The ventilation shaft eventually opened into the city's sewer system—a vast Victorian network of brick tunnels that carried Berlin's waste into treatment facilities miles away. The smell would have been overwhelming to a human. To Ratta, with her enhanced senses, it was simply information: water flowing east, chemical runoff from the industrial district mixing with organic waste, and beneath it all, the earthy musk of rats.

Real rats. Hundreds of them.

They sensed her immediately as she dropped from the vent into a main tunnel, landing with barely a splash in the shallow stream that ran along the center. 

Ratta froze, suddenly uncertain. The rat-mind in her head recognized kin. 

The human consciousness recoiled in disgust and fear.

From the darkness, eyes began to appear. 

Dozens, then hundreds, glinting in the dim light that filtered down from occasional grates overhead. 

They moved toward her in a chittering wave, and for a moment, Ratta tensed for attack.

But they didn't attack. They swarmed around her, over her, their small bodies pressing against her legs with a behavior that was almost... reverential. They squeaked and chirped, and somehow, impossibly, Ratta understood them. Not words, exactly, but meanings. Intentions.

Large one. Strange one. Strong one. Leader?

The rat-mind responded without conscious thought, and Ratta released a series of high-pitched vocalizations that made the swarm go still and attentive. She was asserting dominance, establishing hierarchy, and they were accepting it with the natural instinct of creatures who lived in rigid social structures.

She'd become the queen of Berlin's underworld without trying.

The realization was simultaneously horrifying and darkly amusing. Seraphina Vane, pop princess, now the matriarch of a plague of rats. The irony was so terrible that something like laughter bubbled up in her chest it emerged as a series of squeaking chirps that sent ripples through her new subjects.

But she couldn't stay here in the sewers forever. 

Thorne's journal was sodden now, its pages bleeding ink, but she'd read enough to understand what she needed. 

A laboratory. 

Specific chemicals. Time. 

And none of that existed in the dripping darkness beneath the city.

She needed to go up. 

Into the human world. Find help.

The thought sent a spike of anxiety through her. 

How? 

Like this? 

A monster carrying a ruined journal, trying to communicate through squeaks and gestures? She'd be shot, captured, or driven away in terror. The German media would have a field day. The world would see what she'd become.

But what choice did she have? Die down here in the dark? Accept this transformation as permanent? Let Thorne's modifications be the final word on Seraphina Vane's story?

No.

She would not disappear quietly. She would not be forgotten. She would not let this be the end.

Ratta made her way through the sewers, navigating by instinct and the memories of the city map she'd once studied to find the best shopping districts between concerts. The tunnels led everywhere. 

She could feel the city above her the vibration of traffic, the thrum of trains, the collective heartbeat of millions of people going about their lives, completely unaware of the nightmare moving beneath their feet.

She traveled for hours, her powerful body tireless, the swarm of rats gradually thinning as she moved away from their territories. Finally, she found what she was looking for a maintenance tunnel that led to the Mitte district, the historical heart of Berlin. A ladder of rusted iron rungs climbed toward a sealed hatch.

Ratta ascended, her claws scraping against metal. 

At the top, she pressed her shoulder against the hatch and pushed. It resisted, then gave way with a shriek of corroded hinges, swinging upward into blessed fresh air.

She emerged in an alley behind what looked like an abandoned brewery, the buildings around her dark and silent. 

It was still early perhaps four or five in the morning, that dead hour when even the city's nightlife had finally collapsed into sleep. 

The autumn sky was starting to lighten in the east, stars fading above the rooflines.

Ratta pulled herself fully out of the hatch and stood upright on the cobblestones, breathing deeply. 

The air was cold and clean, carrying scents of distant bakeries beginning their morning preparations, of rain on stone, of life continuing obliviously all around her.

She looked down at herself in the pre-dawn light. 

The blood had mostly washed off in the sewers, but she was still monstrous seven feet of muscle and fur and claws, Thorne's journal clutched against her chest like a talisman. 

Her tail lashed behind her unconsciously, scraping against brick.

She needed to move. 

Needed to find cover before the city woke. But she also needed to be seen. To make contact. To somehow bridge the impossible gap between what she was and what she'd been.

An idea formed. It was desperate and probably insane, but every option available to her was desperate and insane.

She began to climb.

Part VII: The Cathedral

Berlin Cathedral the Berliner Dom rose against the lightening sky like a monument to a more confident age. 

Its massive copper dome, green with patina, dominated the skyline of Museum Island. Ratta had performed there once, two years ago, a special concert for the city's elite. 

She remembered the acoustics, the way her voice had echoed through the neo-baroque interior like something from heaven.

Now she scaled the building's exterior with the casual ease of something born to climb. Her claws found purchase in ornamental stonework that had never been meant to support weight from that angle. She moved in near-silence, a dark shape against darker stone, invisible to the few early commuters beginning to cross the bridges below.

The climb took ten minutes. 

By the time she reached the dome itself, her heart was pounding with exertion and adrenaline. She pulled herself onto the cupola's edge, her claws scraping against copper that was slick with morning dew, and stood.

Berlin spread out before her in every direction.

To the east, the sky was bleeding pink and gold. 

The Spree River curved through the city like a serpent, its waters catching the first rays of sun. She could see the television tower at Alexanderplatz, the modernist blocks of former East Berlin, the green expanse of Tiergarten. 

Millions of people down there, preparing for another day, completely unaware.

Ratta closed her eyes. 

The memories came flooding back with agonizing clarity standing on a stage just like this elevated, exposed, the center of attention but feeling loved instead of monstrous. 

She remembered the weight of a microphone in her hand, the way it felt to draw breath and know that what came out would be beautiful.

Her throat worked uselessly. 

The sound that emerged was a high-pitched squeak, devoid of melody, devoid of humanity.

She tried again, forcing the air from her lungs with all the technique she'd spent years perfecting. 

Please, she thought desperately. 

Please, just once, let me sound like myself. 

Let me prove I'm still in here.

But all that came out was noise. 

Animal noise. 

The desperate chirping of something that had lost the ability to speak.

The frustration and grief that rose in her chest was volcanic. 

Ratta threw her head back, opened her maw, and shrieked a sound that started as a rat's squeal but rose and rose in pitch and volume until it became something else entirely. 

Something that contained all her rage and sorrow and loss, the death of Seraphina Vane and the birth of this nightmare creature, eight months of torture compressed into a single, sustained note of pure anguish.

The sound echoed across Museum Island. 

It shattered windows in nearby buildings. It sent birds exploding from their roosts in panicked clouds. 

It made early morning joggers stop in their tracks, hearts racing, 

looking around for the source of that impossible sound.

And when it finally ended, when Ratta's lungs were empty and her throat raw, she stood silhouetted against the rising sun seven feet of apocalyptic fury perched atop one of Berlin's most iconic landmarks, clutching a ruined journal, her tail lashing behind her.

Below, she could see people beginning to point. 

Car horns blared as drivers caught sight of her. 

Someone screamed. 

Someone else was pulling out a phone, filming.

Good, the part of her that was still Seraphina thought with grim satisfaction. Let them see. Let them know I'm not gone. I'm not dead. I'm not forgotten.

I'm still here.

From the streets below, sirens began to wail. 

Police, probably, and emergency services, and who knew what else. 

They would come for her. They would try to contain her, to capture her, to make sense of the impossible thing perched atop their cathedral.

Let them try.

Ratta's black eyes scanned the city spread out below her like a feast, and deep in her transformed brain, two minds human and rat merged into singular, terrible purpose. She would survive. 

She would find a way to reverse what had been done to her. 

And if the world wanted to call her a monster, wanted to hunt her and fear her, then so be it.

She'd been a goddess once. 

Now she was something else. Something new.

Something that would not be caged ever again.

As the sun fully crested the horizon, bathing the city in golden light, Ratta threw her head back once more. 

This time, the sound that emerged was different not a shriek of despair, but something colder. 

Harder. 

A challenge issued to the city that had forgotten Seraphina Vane.

I'm coming, that sound said. 

Ready or not.

Then she dropped over the edge of the dome, caught herself on a stone gargoyle, and disappeared into the labyrinth of Berlin's rooftops like a shadow fleeing from the dawn.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...

The transformation is complete. 

The monster is loose. 

And Berlin unsuspecting, unprepared has no idea that its most beloved singer has returned as its worst nightmare.

What happens next? 

Can Ratta find a way to reverse her transformation before her humanity is completely consumed? 

Will the authorities capture her, or will she elude them using her enhanced abilities? 

And what other horrors might be lurking in Professor Thorne's abandoned laboratory experiments left unfinished, other victims waiting to be discovered?

The Ballad of Ratta has only just begun.

⚠️ Experiment File 014 found.

Subject: “Human Connection Test”

Description: An experiment that emotionally connects two strangers…

👉 [Start Test Now 🔗]

(The system finds a suitable match within 30 seconds.)

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