Haven's Addiction
Chapter 25: A Bug Problem

The tracking spell Barthandolous gave me worked amazingly well. The enchantment went on one of the paintbrushes directly for optimal effect. I chose the brush with the most marks and scratches from his mandibles. Theoretically it was the one he used the most, and therefore the most in contact with to make a stronger spell. I held it out in front of me like a magic wand and could feel it gently pulling in a specific direction towards the target.

Unfortunately the spell didn’t come with GPS guidance to navigate the streets of New Haven City. Instead it took me to the target directly as the crow, or giant bug thing, flies. Under the cover of a Shroud, I briskly walked with the brush in hand. It worked like a charm, no pun intended, and took me directly to the run down building where the bug fled to.

I caught up to him in less than twenty minutes. Thanks to Barthandolous I had a little boost in speed and agility. I did some hard core Parkour as I vaulted over fences, climbed up the sides of buildings, jumped along rooftops, and ducked around any obstacles that got in my way. Whenever an obstacle came up in the direction the brush led me, my body would immediately do whatever was needed to get around it whether I needed to go over, under, around, or even through. I knew it was all Barthandolous because I didn’t have these kinds of skills at all. It was kind of surreal to see and feel my body reacting and performing in such a way.

It was much like casting any of the spells through Barthandolous. I kept the desired results in my mind, in this case following the direction of the brush’s pull, and the results happened without needing to put any more thought into it. If I took a moment to think about it, I would have been unnerved that he could have such absolutely control over my body, but I didn’t care. I needed to catch this guy/bug/thing before he got away, and this was the only way available to do it. Besides, it was exciting as hell. I felt like following along through a video camera mounted on the helmet of someone else going through a rigorous Parkour course. Yet this felt so much better. I didn’t just see it with my eyes, I felt it. The burning in my lungs as I ran, the exhilaration of jumping from one building to another, the sound of gravel under my feet in a dark alley, and the smells of a late night grocer as I barged through and out the back door of the shop. I didn’t just see it, I lived it, and it was without a doubt the most fun I’d experienced since arriving in Haven. I was actually sad when it finally came to an end.

It seemed that the bug flew back home instead of continuing to flee, probably figuring that his ability to fly should have been enough to lose me, and normally it would have. We came up to an old and decrepit building that looked to be a former warehouse converted into apartment housing. The residents wandering around outside and in the hallways looked to be of a variety of different races, not just the bug species I chased, which was a relief. If it was a building full of the bugs, I would have had a hell of a time tracking down the right one, and an even harder time interrogating him to find out what he knew. A building filled with the same species would likely have a degree of solidarity where they wouldn’t let me take him/it captive quietly. So be it. With the power of Barthandolous in my hands, I could take them all on like a giant can of Raid.

While the residents of the place were of at least a dozen different species that I could tell, probably more, they still had one thing in common. They were all poor, looked to be malnourished, and wore ratty old clothes. Essentially I stumbled upon a slum. Whether or not they legitimately lived in the many apartments I passed by or were squatting in the empty building was beyond me. Even though they were of different species they did have that common bond keeping them together. There still might be some degree of solidarity to protect one of their own, but it was clear that none of them were fighters, and would probably back down from a confrontation easily.

Navigating through the seemingly endless catacombs of hallways with doors that presumably led to other apartments in search of the elusive artist would have been impossible if not for Barthandolous giving me direction. Now the turn by turn navigation came into play. With the close proximity to the target, he could finally give me exact directions on how to get to the bug, directing me right to the door where he lived.

Getting through the corridors wasn’t always easy, even under a Shroud. I may have been invisible and completely undetectable, but I wasn’t a ghost. I still wanted to remain unnoticed, and that wasn’t easy to do when passing people in the hallway. If they saw me there, even if they didn’t pay me any attention, they would have at least moved to the side a bit. As it was, they walked along normally, and I was forced to squeeze up against the wall to avoid getting ran into.

There are two life forms inside. Barthandolous informed me as we came to the unmarked door. One within a few feet of the door, and the other in a room in the back. The one in the back is our target. At this point I didn’t even bat an eye at the fact that he called ‘our target’, instead of ‘your’.

Now what? I wondered to myself. Without any sort of idea what they were capable of, I would need to catch them by surprise before they could respond. Do I storm in the place like a SWAT team? I still had a tear gas canister left that I could incapacitate the residents inside with. Do I use magic to keep up the Shroud and pass through the wall undetected so that I can sneak up on him? Or do I knock on the door and use a spell to obliterate it when they go to answer it. I could almost see myself grinning mischievously at the thought of the last one. Before I fully came up with a plan I was knocking on the door like I had a pizza to deliver.

I could almost sense Barthandolous calculating exactly how much force to apply to the spell as I raised my palm up to it like Iron Man, about to let loose a sonic blast of energy from his palm. It would need to have just enough power to the door to destroy it into splinters that would shred the occupant on the other side, but not enough that it was be fatal. I started to wonder what the hell was wrong with me for thinking of bringing harm to someone in such an insidious way, but was interrupted by a series of clicks and pops in a rhythmic manner from the other side of the door.

She is asking who is at the door. Barthandolous told me.

Who is asking? What do you mean she?

I could sense the irritation instantly. The noise you hear is her speaking. She wants to know who is...

Wait a moment, I interrupted. Why isn’t the translator working? Even if I talk to her, she won’t understand me anyway.

Some languages can not be interpreted by the translators.

I thought they could translate any language heard.

Most any language heard. Some languages or too complex or are so different from normal languages that they simply don’t translate.

The mental debate with Barthandolous came to an abrupt halt when the door burst open. Another bug-like creature stood in the doorway very similar to the one I saw in the courtyard. This one stood about six inches shorter, and the chitin of its shell looked older, more worn, and of a paler green. Much like the first one I met, they waved a wooden wand at me that wasn’t really a wand.

The bug woman paused for a brief moment when she saw me, taking a long while to look me in the face. Suddenly the creepy mandibles of her mouth began chittering and clacking at high speed, the wooden spoon in her mandible waved at me menacingly, getting dangerously close to my face. Oddly enough, I wasn’t completely on the defensive. Based on my recent reactions to potential threats, I would have thought that one of the weapons would have been out in an instant ready to show me what color she bleeds. Instead I felt suddenly guilty, and couldn’t fully explain why. I felt like I was being scolded, and that I should be issuing an apology that would follow up with ‘yes ma’am’. Sure I couldn’t understand the language in the least, it sounded like a storm of locusts in rhythmic harmony, but I could certainly tell the context of a mother giving me a serious scolding for something I did, or that she thought I did. For all I knew, I could have been guilty.

“Um, hello madam,” were all the words I could manage to get out.

What did I do? I asked.

She says that she wants to know what you did to her son? She is very angry, and using a lot of profanities.

Yeah, I got that much. But who is her son? Ask her what her son knows about me?

You ask her.

At first I thought he was being an ass and refusing to help. It wasn’t until she finally paused a moment in her ranting that it registered. Barthandolous was being literal. He couldn’t ask her a question because he didn’t have vocal cords. While he could communicate with me through a direct mental connection, I was also the only person he had such a connection with.

“Do you understand me?” I asked in a slow, calm tone.

She let out an affirmative that Barthandolous needlessly translated for me. She wore a translator just like mine and could understand all of the same languages I heard. I just couldn’t understand hers.

“I just want to have a talk with your son,” I told her.

No, you can just stay away from him, Barthandolous translated. You have damaged him enough as it is. Now get out of here.

“I assure you, I have not done anything to harm your son,” I told her. She seemed suddenly taken back by someone being able to actually understand her language. “But he seems to know a lot about me, even though we have never formally met. Please, it is very important that I speak with him. I am here in Haven against my will from my home word, and I believe your son knows something that will allow me to get back there.”

She stopped for a moment, the manic waving of the wooden spoon in her hand motionless for the first time since she opened the door.

“Please,” I pleaded genuinely. “My wife is back home and I have been suddenly taken away from her and the the rest of my family. I don’t know how I got here or why, but your son seems to be connected somehow. I understand your need to protect him, and I promise you that I will do nothing to harm him. I just want to, sorry, Need to find out what it is that he knows about my home world.”

For the longest time she paused, not moving except for the pincers on one of her arms twitching, almost as if from a nervous reflex. Finally she put the arm holding the spoon at her side, but raised up another as if to shake my hand, making a series of clacks.

Promise me that you won’t harm him, wizard. Barthandolous translated.

She wanted me to swear by magic in making an oath. In truth, I didn’t want to harm him, at least not anymore. I agreed to it, shaking her claw, being careful not to let my fingers get in between her pincers. As I walked down the hallway to the back bedroom she guided me to, I definitely didn’t want to harm him. Upon walking into the room, after getting over the initial shock, I felt sorry for him.

I found Ongkin Kliemsh squatting with all of his arm, legs, and wings tucked in as tight of a ball as possible by a fireplace in one wall, but at first I didn’t even notice him. Instead I was captivated by the paintings and sketches all over the room. The room was about twenty square feet, pretty large for a bedroom. But all of the pictures, paper, paints, easels, brushes, notebooks, and pencils dominated the room so much that it felt claustrophobic from clutter.

The subjects of the pictures were all captivating, as they were all of me. Well, not me exactly, but of various images I experienced throughout my life. The only picture with me in them were like self portraits taken from the image of looking into a mirror or reflective surface. The most captivating of all was the fact that they were all familiar to me in some way, even if I couldn’t quite place them. Not just a few of them were familiar, but all of them. Nearby the door on the surface of, what was probably a desk underneath all of the paper, I picked up a stack of random sheets of paper, and flipped through the images on each one. Every single one of them looked strikingly familiar to me. Some of them were immediately recognizable; my wife, our house together, my car, friends, co-workers, places we went on vacation, etc. Others appeared to be on Earth, various cars, buildings, billboards, images on a television screen, people, and so on that meant nothing to me, yet still rang as familiar.

While the plethora of images rang a bell, it was the quantity of them that struck me more than anything. Flipping through the stack of papers, and then picking up another to examine, it became readily apparent that all of the images in the room came from Earth. All of them were hand drawn or painted, and appeared to be created by the large bug cowering in the corner of the room. There had to be thousands of pieces of paper in the room with various images on them. I didn’t know how long he had worked in them, but even if it took years, the sheer volume of it all bordered on insanity. There was no denying that I stared an obsession head on, one that boiled over past the point of sane. Seeing the creator of the art balled up in the corner, felt sorry for him.

Any anger or fury I felt for this bug/guy went away instantly. Instead I felt sorry for him. I didn’t know what caused his insanity, and wasn’t sure if I wanted to go anywhere near it. Which struck me as an odd response. Since arriving in Haven, I faced horrible things head on without much hesitation. For the firs time I paused, and worried about how to proceed. Dealing with a slathering monster with big pointing teeth charging at you was a different beast altogether from an intelligent creature in the throws of mental turmoil who I wanted to get information from. I’d never actually reasoned with a crazy person before, nor did I ever have reason to until now. This guy seemed to be clearly off his rocker. I needed to find out how he knew so many details about my world, but didn’t know where to start.

“What is all this?” I finally asked, still holding a wad of papers in my hand while I stood in the center of the room amid a carpet of similar papers. I didn’t know how he would react, and kept my distance. He glanced slightly over his shoulder to confirm my presence, only to go back to what he was doing. He ripped out a page from a book in front of him and placed it into the fireplace, although on closer inspection it was nothing more than a metal barrel with an opening on one side and a pipe that led up and out the wall. The flames inside instantly consumed the piece of paper. He studiously ripped out another page and fed it to the flames, continuing with his task as if he was still alone in the room.

“Where did you get all of these images?” I demanded, getting angry, taking a step closer.

“Are you real?” He asked without looking away from his repetitive task.

“Excuse me?” I asked, not knowing how to respond to hearing him speak. I expected a bunch gibberish like with his mother and Barthandolous translating.

He is speaking a more modern form of dialect for his language, Barthandolous informed me. One specifically created to work with the translators.

Then why didn’t his mother speak it?

Because some are set in their ways and refuse to alter their culture in order to adapt to changes in society.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, still not looking at me. “Even if you weren’t real, you would tell me that you were. And if you are real, I can’t trust that you would tell me the truth.” His voice seemed far off and distant, like he wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. He paused for a long time before shaking his head vigorously, as if doing so would clear his head. “So many images. So many experiences. So much joy. So much loss. Too many memories, too many.” He continued prattling on like this, speaking nonsense about imagery and memory, and at one point even doubting his own existence. I clearly wasn’t dealing with a sane person.

Crazy or not, he knew a lot about Earth. Whether he had been there or not didn’t matter. When I looked at one of the portraits on an easel, I completely lost it. The portrait was painted in full color and painstaking detail went into it. It was an image that I knew perfectly well. The woman in the picture wore a full length white gown, her long red curly hair flowing over her shoulders. She stood in front of a grand staircase with golden brown trim, her hands clasped in front of her. The ring on her left hand was clearly visible. A small silver band with a heart being clasped by two hands on either side. On top of the heart bore a crown that faced away from her. I knew this ring well. She wore it every day from the moment I gave it to her on the day of her first gallery opening to within an hour after that picture when I took it off of her, before two dozen witnesses of friends and family, and replaced it with a wedding band.

I knew this image well because the moment she first came down the stairs, the sun came in through the window behind her, making her hair almost glow. She paused for just a moment and smiled at me wide. At that particular moment in time, she and I were the only people at the landing. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, others saw her and came over, and shortly after that the ceremony began. There were no other witnesses to that singular beautiful moment except for what I saw with my own eyes.

Before I was even aware of it, the papers dropped to the ground as a pistol appeared in my hand as I walked towards him. “Who the hell are you,” I demanded, pointing the pistol.

“I am Ongkin Kliemsh,” he said, pausing with a shred of paper still within his pincers, still not turning to look at me. “And I am Bailey Groves. I have lived both lives. I am both individually, yet I am one in the same.”

“Start talking sense you crazy bastard or,” but I didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. He whirled around with lightning speed, made his way to me in one quick step, knelt down before me, and reached up with one pincer claw of a hand on the pistol, holding the barrel of it in place directly on the center of his giant bug forehead.

“I am at your mercy, my lord,” he said, holding on to the pistol with an iron grip so that I couldn’t take it away. “I am not worthy of your gift. Please put at end to my miserable existence so that you may choose a more worthy vessel.”

This I didn’t expect at all. I thought he might at least put up a struggle or a fight, but he actually wanted to die. If I gave him what he wanted I wouldn’t get the answer I sought, not to mention the backlash from the agreement with his mother to not harm him. And, quite honestly, the possibility of facing her wrath frightened me more than the hazards of the magical binding.

What in the world is going on here? I asked Barthandolous.

I can inquire further.

Just an inquiry. Nothing invasive.

You were the one foolish enough to make an agreement with the female.

Just do it, already. He’s making me nervous.

I placed my left palm directly on Ongkin’s forehead, which felt cool to the touch. It only took a couple seconds for Barthandolous to respond.

He seems to have all of your memories.

How is that possible?

There are several ways. I won’t be able to find out without digging deeper. But it seems that having two sets of memories simultaneously living in his brain is causing it to break down.

I didn’t want to risk hurting him, so I tried digging in my own way. I dismissed the pistol, took a step back away, and spoke to him in an authoritative tone. “Arise Ongkin Kliemsh. You are indeed worthy, and I have a task for you to prove your devotion.”

“Anything, my master.”

“Explain to me how it is that you came to be endowed with my knowledge.”

“I was painting in the courtyard, as I do every night, when your divine presence was born to this realm.”

“What do you mean born?”

“With a bright flash of divine light and a pulse of energy you were created right before my eyes. You were still and lifeless. When I touched you, you came to life, and I was bestowed with all of your wisdom.”

Does this make any sense to you? I asked Barthandolous, not sure what to make of any of this. It seemed like the ramblings of an insane person, or bug. For all I knew this was completely normal behavior for his species.

Actually, it does. Have him recall that moment in his mind so that I can see it without intruding on his thoughts any further.

I did as he said and placed my palm back on Ongkin’s forehead once again. A long silence followed without a response. Care to elaborate?

Yes. Give me a moment.

I could almost hear the whirring of his mental gears, like a computer hard drive conducting a data search. I knew he was exceptionally bright with a seemingly limitless source of knowledge, but never before did it take him so long to come up with an answer.

You have a mental block in place that seems to have been put there by those who sent you to Haven. This I already knew about, or at least suspected as much, from the meeting with the Mystic. Barthandolous seemed to be very irritated by this fact. Not just that the mental block was there, but that he was now forced to play his hand and inform me about it.

The description of the energy signature used upon your arrival matches with that of Transdimensional Teleportation.

Transdimentional? So, what? This is like a bizarro-world version of Haven?

It is used for travel of the greatest distances. The realm you came from is very far away from here, and it is the only form of transportation that could instantly get you here.

Ok, and what does that have to do with a mental block?

The blockage in your mind is impermeable, which made me wonder how hard he tried to get past it. And takes a lot of energy to create. Transdimensional Teleportation also takes a massive amount of energy to cast. When two powerful spells like that are used in conjunction, they tend to be volatile. Since the bug was at your point of arrival when the energy was being released, it seems to have backlashed into him when you came into contact. Living matter can not be transported through Transdimentional Teleportation. The process would inevitably kill them.

Hence the need for a clone that was fabricated here and then my mind inserted into it.

Sure. Whatever helps you to understand it.

Skip the magic technobabble. What does it mean?

The bug is now two minds, yours and his. Within his head is all all of your memories through life.

I was stunned by this, and didn’t know how to react.

This is a benefit to us. He told me. The mental block in your head protects the identity of those who sent you here. He now has all of your memories, but does not have a mental block. By accessing your mind that is fused with his, we will be able to properly identify them and the true reason they sent you here.

I looked down at the poor pitiful creature bowing before me, and suddenly felt sorry for him. He was an innocent bystander caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. No wonder he seemed completely crazy, he suddenly had two full lifetimes of experience crammed into his head without knowing why. I looked around the room at the obsessive assortment of pictures scattered everywhere, and it all suddenly made sense. His mind was flooded with all these images that he didn’t understand. Suddenly I felt wracked with guilt that this poor creatures insanity was caused by me. But it only lasted for a brief moment, as I was interrupted by Barthandolous.

By tapping into his mind, I will be able to retrieve those memories and find out exactly why you were sent here.

While having that information would be great, I suddenly didn’t want it anymore. What would it do to him? Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The process of memory retrieval would undoubtedly damage his psyche, but from the looks of things I doubt it could get more damaged.

That’s exactly what I was afraid of. When Barthandolous extracted the information from the fake Edic, the pain that it brought him was clearly excruciating. Not just physical, but psychological pain that, if I hadn’t killed him, would have scarred him for life. Granted, the Carnivex spy deserved it, but Ongkin Kliemsh didn’t.

Can you reverse the process?

You mean separate your mind from his?Yes, but all of that information would be lost. That would be a foolish move to give up the opportunity to learn the identity of your benefactor.

“That’s enough!” I shouted out loud, startling Ongkin. He quickly scurried back to his corner. He has been through enough. I will not cause him further pain. Who exactly sent me and why is irrelevant. If I have to harm innocent people in order to get back to my world, then it isn’t worth saving.

A long silence followed, which wasn’t a good sign when dealing with Barthandolous. I could feel his anger seething through the Orb. He didn’t like being put in his place, and it probably happened relatively few times in his long existence. The fact that following through with his plan of extracting the information would harm Ongkin and result in a backlash because of the pact made with his mother didn’t even occur to me.

Would removing my mind from his cause him any harm?

No, he grumbled. His mind would return to normal. There may be some psychological damage because of what he has experienced so far, but that can not be helped now. What’s done is done. That would likely heal over quickly because he would have no memory of your life. He would likely wake up in a haze, like he lost the last few months of his life.

I looked at the poor quivering creature in the corner. Then do it, I said without a moments hesitation. He has suffered enough because of me. And if I thought about it any more, I would likely change my mind, but I didn’t let that thought coalesce enough for him to pick up on it.

You are a fool, He growled at me. But I will do as you command.

I walked over towards Ongkin Kliemsh carefully, as if confronting a frightened feral animal. For all I knew, anything could set him off, and the thought of having his pincers coming at me in a flurry didn’t put me at ease, especially after seeing how quickly he could move when he wanted to. I knelt down beside him so that I could be down at his level, feeling the warmth of the small wood burning stove. I looked down on the ground next to him at a small book lying there, or at least what was left of it. The book was ripped apart with only a few pages remaining within the binding. The pages looked to be blank, like that of a journal, that had been meticulously written in. While I couldn’t read the language, I could immediately identify that handwriting as being from an artist with long flowing lines and meticulously structured characters.

“What is this?” I asked him, curious with the sudden feeling that this book held something important.

“It is the Gospel of Bailey Groves,” he muttered, which startled me. I wasn’t expecting any sort of response. It took me a moment to realize what he meant. If he thought I was some sort of divine being, then this was his effort to document that. At least it was until he started to destroy it. Probably because he panicked after seeing me in the courtyard.

I took out my translating glasses and picked up one of the pieces of paper that fell on the ground when he lunged at me earlier. The subject matter of the page struck me immediately, as it detailed the argument between my wife and I on my last night on Earth. Reading a transcript of it, the entire disagreement seemed petty and pointless. She picked out kilns for a pottery studio she was in the process building in the garage. The one she wanted to get would be more expensive, and huge, more space than she would probably ever use at one time. I stubbornly argued the cost when it wasn’t needed, but in truth it didn’t matter. We had no children and could easily afford it. It may have been excessive, but wasn’t really worth arguing over.

She accused me of being a ‘stubborn, thick headed, pain in the ass’. She was right. Those were her words exactly. I knew, because they appeared on the page in front of me. And now I would never be able to forget them. They were also the last words she said to me before storming off to bed. Possibility the last words I would ever hear from her. If not for my sudden unexpected trip to Haven, I would have woken up in the morning realizing that I was wrong, and let her place the order. Instead her last words to me were bitter and angry, and I would never be able to change that now.

Get my memories out of his head, I told Barthandolous, suddenly filled with longing and regret. Nobody deserves to have an asshole like me stuck in their head.

I believe he responded with a snide remark of I couldn’t agree with you more, but couldn’t say for certain. It took every amount of willpower I had to keep from falling apart as the moisture poured down my cheeks. While I was definitely curious about who sent me to Haven, suddenly drowned in guilt I no longer cared. Knowing their identity seemed about as inconsequential as what kilns to purchase. All I wanted to do was leave this room of painful memories, go to the nearest tavern, and utilize my own method of ridding myself of unwanted memories.

I could sense the magical energies in the air as Barthandolous wove his spells to cleanse Ongkin’s mind. The storm of energy filled the room with such a charge that I could feel the hairs on my arms crackle, yet at the same time I felt completely removed from the scene. I looked around at all the pictures of memories both painful and pleasant, and walked over to the portrait of my wife on the grand staircase. Without thinking about it, I took out a knife, carefully cutting out the canvas, rolled it up, and then stuffed it down into my magic bag.

By the time the portrait was fully put away, I heard a thud on the floor behind me, and turned to see Ongkin lying unconscious on the ground.

It is done.

“Good,” I said out loud as I walked back towards his prone body.

I still believe that you are a fool.

And your belief is valid. I replied, still in a funk.

I knelt down to pick up the empty spine of the book Ongkin tore the pages out of, and pulled out a quill. I looked it over closely, turning it over in my hands. The red feather was stiff in my hands, more durable than any feather I had seen before. The surface was marred from repeated use much like the paint brush I used to track Ongkin. The tip of it was wet with ink. I dabbed it on my finger and the ink rubbed off, but the tip remained wet with more ink.

While examining the quill, Ongkin regained consciousness, looking up at me confused. Any recognition of me in his massive bulbous eyes was now gone. He looked around the room, equally confused, and not recognizing his surroundings.

“Who are you?” He asked, bewildered. “Where am I?”

“I am nobody important. Just forget about me.” I turned to see his mother standing in the doorway, all of her arms crossed firmly across her chest. I had no idea how long she had been standing there. “You are home now. That is all that matters,” I said as I looked her directly in the eyes. She nodded in approval and went to her son, clicking and clacking with her mandibles along the way, and he responded with clicks of his own.

Can you track what has been written with this? I asked Barthandolous as I looked down at the quill in my hand.

Easily. It is an enchanted writing quill. A counter enchantment would make it recreate everything it has written.

Good. Lets get out of here, I commanded as I put the quill in my pocket.

I could hear Ongkin Kliemsh calling out after me as I continued walking out. “Hey, that’s my quill.”

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