etherthief: (working | moping | both?)
[personal profile] etherthief
Rush's dream collapses and Iman lies awake, breathing too hard, staring at her ceiling. Her blood is up from his dumbshit attitude and his mottled, fucked up arm - she needs to break something. It's too early to go to Wilmot's but what the fuck is the point of sleeping, anyway.

She gets out of bed, paces for a few minutes, and ends up hurling an innocent coffee mug across the room, finding intense, relieving satisfaction in the sound of it shattering. That's better.

She'll clean that up later. She gets into the shower and turns it on cold. This is happening today. It'll just be her and Daine and Rush, who had better still fucking be alive.

There will be blood if he's not.

She brushes her teeth furiously, gets dressed and spends undue attention making herself look clean. There will be time aplenty for her to get wrecked today.

She checks the clock. Still at least an hour before even the stickiest barfly would be out and about. But if she stays here she'll end up breaking more things from the inactivity. She goes out.

She walks for a while. Wilmot's is close, so she ends up just circling that area, remembering vaguely better times when she fielded a weird meeting between Daniel and the Devil, and later when the Devil crashed through a wall. She'd take that shit over this, probably.

Finally, when time enough has passed, she walks into Wilmot's End, sits at the bar, orders "The tallest Tom Collins you can give me", and waits.
andhiswife: (hello baby)
[personal profile] andhiswife
If it was just the one baby, Greta suspects it would be easier than it had been at home. She doesn't have to balance childcare with running a bakery, and her apartment is too newly-settled (and little-trafficked) to require anywhere near as much cleaning as a shop. And if ROMAC hasn't provided her with much in the way of human aid - there is a nursery she can bring them to when necessary, but it's busy and noisy and a few of the children there have alarming Rift enchantments to contend with, so she treats that as a last resort - at least they've given her all the material things she could need.

(It both helps and distantly rankles that she's used to doing the bulk of the work herself, anyway.)

Two, though. Two are a literal and metaphorical handful. She often finds herself thinking it's just as well the Witch only promised them one, for both their sakes, and then just for his, and then she has to stop thinking about it. So perhaps it's just as well that she has two to distract her, now.

The poor, motherless things. If they're really motherless. She should stop thinking about that, as well, if only because she hasn't the first idea how to track down their parents if they are here, and it's not safe for her to reach out to those who might be able to help her. Maybe they are orphans. Either way, the best use of her time and energy is giving them the best possible care, so... that's just what she's going to do.

Alone, if she has to.

[ooc: so, Greta's gonna be watching these two tiny babies for about a week and presumably is not going to have much time for anything else, poor woman. But she'll almost certainly welcome visitors unless you're an emotion-nomming creep! If your character can finagle their way into the ROMAC base, feel free to have them drop by her apartment. If you can't realistically get into ROMAC but still want in on the baby-related redonkulousness, drop me a line and we can finagle a way to get her out into the Park or something.

Also, since this could take place at any time over the course of a week, just pick your date and put it in the header of your top-level for reference.]
lottawork: (insomniac | dead inside)
[personal profile] lottawork
[ooc: this thread will likely be...very unsettling. It will involve interrogation, and probably torture. Tag-specific trigger warnings to follow.]

He has not slept in days. Presumably. The uniform nature of the lighting has made it difficult to determine, and he has never excelled at temporal sequencing. He has paced and scrutinized every corner, restless hands skimming the walls of his prison and curling around the edges of his arms and pushing through the tangling disarray of his hair to press back the sensation of something crawling and skittering and itching and hypodermic that has burrowed beneath, rooted below skin and below bone.

The pressure of palms against walls cannot tether him, and the drag of nails over his own skin does little but lend tiny, convulsive tics of his head to his nervous repertoire. Exhaustion has been seeded into every shift of his gaze, every weary, protracted blink. His eyes rake the air in scattered repetition. Prolonged tension is difficult to sustain over a period of days; even more difficult when sustained in conjunction with the grating mindlessness of fearful anticipation.

He trusts Fring will not keep him waiting for much longer.

The accuracy of this prediction is not a comfort.

The rasping scrape of metal over metal as the bolt slides back is the exchange of one form of relief for another form of mounting panic. Any efforts to appear dull-eyed and lifeless would be utterly worthless - he would not insult Fring with an obvious act, not when he has made no previous attempts to disguise his agitation.

In the absence of all other comforts, Rush may at least take solace in the warped form of release.

It is poor consolation.

The door swings inward in a heavy, gliding arc.
etherthief: (doin science to a thing)
[personal profile] etherthief
[Iman and Rush are going turn the day's general chaos and Rush's curse of being trapped in reflective surfaces to their advantage and do some snooping in ROMAC's labs. Their goal is to see if ROMAC knows what's going on with this curse event and perhaps could have warned people or prevented it - they may find that, or something even worse. ETA: j/k this WILL be serving as a prelude to faction dissolution, stay tuned.]

'Through some improvised experimentation, the following facts about Rush's condition have been posited or ascertained:

1.) Base observation: Rush is confined within reflective surfaces not limited to but most prevalently mirrors.

2.) He is unable to breach these surfaces but he can communicate with those outside them.

3.) In spite of immense scientific improbability, he is not currently comprised of light, but solid matter. Jury's still out on how that works.

4.) The reflected world around him, however, cannot be interacted with normally. He is limited to electrical/light-based interactions - the sending of text messages, though they are garbled - and there is potential for other electrical interference.

5.) He can move adjacently out of each reflected zone. He is automatically displaced to the nearest adjacent reflective surface. If there is a closed reflective circuit he cannot move outside it. Caution required to avoid entrapment.'

Iman finishes reading these notes and glances at Rush, currently contained within her homemade hand mirror, for approval. She's brought him back to the Base and is now waiting for the elevator to arrive and take them down toward where they aren't supposed to be. Her favorite place.
etherthief: (intrigue | defiance | whoa now)
[personal profile] etherthief
Iman is mostly glad she chose not to move herself to the ROMAC Base. She likes her little ill-gotten Greenwich Village studio and the knowledge that even if Satan drops in on her occasionally, she's not directly under the thumb and possibly well-hidden eye of her sketchy employers. There is not much to be said for the distance, however. It takes her an unacceptably long time to reach the building, where she's SUPPOSED to be anyway for work, but instead she heads straight up to the apartment level, moving right to Greta's door. By this time no amount of frantically checking her stupid traitorous piece of shit little phone has rewarded her with any responses. Greta MUST be up by now, so either she hasn't managed to notice the texts yet, or... Well, she doesn't even want to think about that.

She takes a deep breath and knocks.

She waits, listening. Knocks again.

"Greta?" she says softly, nervously. "It's me. Can... can I come in? Can we talk?"

Nothing. Not even movement. Iman's frown tightens. This doesn't seem normal. Greta doesn't seem the type of avoid a problem like this, anyway.

She weighs her options. Should she check inside? She doesn't like the idea of just walking away, especially when she's not sure where Greta is.

Slowly she reaches out and puts her hand on the knob.

She really, really, really hopes Greta isn't in there. If she breaks in while Greta's in there, she - she doesn't even know.

Whatever. She breathes out and-

-the door is... open? No casual transmutaion required. That's... weird.

She steps inside and looks around. Everything looks fine. Clean. The bed looks slept in and unmade, which is unusual, Greta is so incredibly tidy all the time, and...

Oh thank FUCKING FUCK her phone is on the bedside table.

"Ohhhmygodyes," she whispers to the divine mercy of whatever coincidence allowed this to happen. She grabs Greta's phone, which prompts her for a passcode, good, so someone showed her how to do that.

Unfortunately Iman is really good at breaking passcodes. That's kind of her thing.

"Sorry, Greta," she murmurs under her breath, hacks the code, slides open the phone. Greta has an absurd number of horrifying notifications, ugh ugh ugh. She feverishly opens up her text and deletes the entire record.

Okay. That's done. She is officially the luckiest bastard ever.

She sets the phone aside gingerly and breathes out. With that distress averted, she now takes the time to look around. Where is Greta? Why would she have left the bed unmade - her phone her - her door unlocked? Iman can see her keys hanging on a little hook by the door, chews her lip looking at them. Perhaps she's doing laundry? Shit, that would be incredibly awkward, if she came back up to find Iman here. But no, there's the hamper there with a few things in it.

Shit. Iman stands up sharply. Shit, shit. Where is she? What happened to her?

Is she gone? Was she sent home? Did something happen?

She thinks about Rashad essentially breaking into Rush's apartment the other day - and she thinks about how fucking weird this morning is, Daniel floating, Seth a cat, her phone... Something definitely could have happened, maybe something bad, and she has no idea how to track Greta down.

She paces in a tight circle, not sure what she should do. Well, okay, she knows she should probably calm down, but this morning has been TOO EVENTFUL by half for that to happen. That ship has gone to sea. She is full tilt frantic right now. She has to do something but she has no idea where to even start.

Well. There are plenty of people who might.


She pulls out her phone. She really, really doesn't want to do this.

She sends a text.
andhiswife: (profile)
[personal profile] andhiswife
The fixtures are still foreign, and the layout still feels counterintuitive and strange. But maybe that's just as well. Greta will teach herself new ways of navigating this tiny kitchen, new patterns of motion, and soon she will stop being tripped up by the fact that she's no longer moving in tandem with somebody else. It would be cramped if anyone else was trying to work here, anyway.

And they're fine, back home. They're fine. She will be fine, as well.

She is fine, now, in fact - indulging in some cautious optimism as she wipes flour off the table (there is not enough counter space here; she has had to improvise), half her attention on the pies in the oven. Iman likes pie, doesn't she? Everyone likes pie. Greta made two different kinds, just to be on the safe side. It seemed only right that she do something in return for Iman's help the other day, and now that she no longer feels like a plague victim, there's no reason to wait. It's not as if she has anything else on her schedule.

She hopes Iman likes pie.

The blueberry finishes a bit sooner than the raspberry, but both are cooling on top of the stove by the time eleven o'clock rolls around. Greta hangs up her apron and wipes (most of) the flour off her face, then starts some tea, casting periodic glances toward the door.
etherthief: (Default)
[personal profile] etherthief
Iman is in a perilously good mood after the last collective dream - apart from very nearly embarrassing the shit out of herself in front of the TARDIS, a situation which she's fairly hopeful righted itself, all her interactions were lovely and stress-free. She remembers meeting Greta especially, since Greta is someone she can track down, and more than that, she essentially promised to. Work moves at a reasonable pace and she manages to enjoy it - she and Rush are back to an acceptable state of banter, and Julian continues to be friendly and fine - and it's payday. Maybe she can take Greta out somewhere.

It's quick work getting the roster of registrants living at the Base, and sure enough there's a Greta Baker - Baker, really? Did she not have a last name, did they just assign her that? - up several floors in the living area. One elevator ride and several fiddling adjustments to her hijab later, she's standing outside Greta's door. She gives a quick series of knocks and then folds her hands behind her back. She's a little nervous, she thinks. Probably because they were sort of all up in each other's business last night, and this is someone she seriously doubts has any idea of bisexuality or indeed, anything outside the medieval heteronorm, but that's half the fun, surely.
etherthief: (I'm going to try science)
[personal profile] etherthief
The HR director is a thin man with a long lined face and small, delicate glasses. Quite attractive, for an older bureaucrat, but this is hardly the time. Iman contents herself for watching him idly as he reviews her paperwork.

"What makes you want to work for ROMAC?" he asks after a moment, looking up at her with a sort of dull yet penetrating expression that contributes to her conviction that this one is off limits. He's nice, likable, and sort of creepy. But that's okay. It's not like he'll be her supervisor.

"Well, I held off making a decision for a while," she says in the smooth, casual tone she uses for job interviews. "I wanted to see all my options, you know. But it turns out there just aren't that many, as I'm sure you know. Don't get me wrong, I love the city, but not being able to leave it, that's kind of a dealbreaker for a lot of the job options. But what would I be doing for them, anyway? IT consultation? When there's something as huge and fascinating as the Rift out there?" She clears her throat, squares her shoulders and looks him in the eye. "Mr. Fring, I have been working in the field of dimensional physics - exactly the kind of work involved with studying this kind of spatial-temporal anomoly - for just about my entire life. This Rift is the discovery of a lifetime. If ROMAC's scientific department is investigating the whys and hows of this thing, then I want to be involved, in whatever capacity, every step of the journey from here on out. And let me assure you: you guys want me on your team."

She smiles. This is more aggressively self-aggrandizing that she usually likes to be (at least out loud) but that's what'll get you in with these sorts of places. Gus eyes her thoughtfully and then resumes glancing over her paperwork, which she filled out in greater detail than was strictly necessary. Credentials are hard to prove in this sort of situation, but given that they're all in the same boat, she's hoping her enthusiasm will be enough.

"You seem to have an impressive background," he says after a moment, "so I hope you won't feel offended if I tell you that you'll have to be part of a training program first."

She waves a hand, relaxing her posture. "I would never have expected any different," she says.

"It isn't just an orientation. This is a highly secure department you're applying into. You'll have to be screened, thoroughly."


"Entry positions are generally only lab technicians and assistants," he says. "You'd have to be with us for some time before securing a full research position."

"Of course." Iman doesn't care about any of that. She just wants in. She wants the keycard and the door codes and the beautiful, wonderful laboratory access. She can handle the rest on her own. She doesn't need, or even want, a cushy research job with this faction. She has the Doctor for the real work. This is basically going to be an insider position. And she's going to rock it.

"All right," he says pleasantly. "Well, everything seems to be in order. Let me just go and check with the training department when the next session begins. Help yourself to water or coffee, whatever you like - I'll come and find you."

Iman nods, stands with him and shakes his head. "Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Fring," she says with a broad smile.

"Thank you," he replies, still with that extremely corporate smile, and then he departs.

Iman stretches out a little and proceeds at a comfortable pace to the watercooler/refreshment area to pour herself some coffee.
omnomnom_feels: (Default)
[personal profile] omnomnom_feels
At first Rashad assumed that his coworkers were failing to notice his presence because he is naturally taciturn and their senses are naturally lacking. It isn't just that Maureen cut in front of him at the copier, though, or that Bob and Rob didn't include him in their watercooler chatter (they don't normally anyway, and he believes it has something to do with the slight feeling of derision that usually emanates from them). It was when Maureen tutted and came into his cubicle to shut off the computer he'd still been using yesterday evening that Rashad realized something more was at play.

This morning they seem entirely unable to see him. He finds this rather inconvenient, as it is difficult to do his work when he is assumed to be absent. It is not until several hours into his workday that the benefits of his condition occur to him and he helps himself to a tour of the building, slipping in and out of offices to spy on their inhabitants and exploring restricted areas with increasing confidence.

Later, when he has explored enough, he ventures out into the city in search of sustenance. It will be easy to get close to anyone he finds in the throes of an emotion. They'll never even see him coming.

[Anyone with business at ROMAC can find Rashad poking his nose where it doesn't belong...if they can see him. Otherwise he'll be on the prowl, stealth-nomming people's emotions.]
bibliophale: (stern | defiant)
[personal profile] bibliophale
It takes Crowley a few hours to get back to his initial query, and when he does it is with the grim but unsurprising news that ROMAC does not intend to let their fungus child live in peace in her little dungeon hideaway. Even if their intentions are pure, as they might well be in this instance, Aziraphale doesn't like the idea of Melanie as a test subject, and something tells him she won't like it either.

More importantly, it just doesn't sit right with him, a little girl living in a place like that. It would be heartless to just leave her there. Rescuing her is the right thing to do. The angelic thing.

As soon as he's decided, he closes up the shop and vanishes, leaving his phone on the counter (not on purpose, though it's probably for the best, the way Crowley keeps going on).

He doesn't quite know where he's heading. The Base itself is easy enough, but he's only got a fair guess at which level is Melanie's. He finds himself in a corridor more or less resembling the place from his dream, and takes a moment to fish around, seeking something young, human, and also not quite human. Her consciousness doesn't exactly stand out, but it is odd, and after a moment he gets a faint sense for it, lower in the earth.

He slips into a stairwell and hurries down a few flights. He passes a few men and women with security badges, and all look right past him. He's no one. He's definitely supposed to be here. On the cameras, of course, he won't show up at all.

Coming out the stairwell into Melanie's cell block, he immediately finds himself face to face with a guard, who raises his gun with a sharp "Hey!" Aziraphale steps around him with the grace and nonchalance of a professional spy. The guard fires a warning shot, a thin stream of water grazing Aziraphale's upper arm (sometimes old tricks are the best ones). Aziraphale passes a hand over his arm to dry his blazer, and, as an afterthought, encourages the guard to take a quick lie-down, and just forget about that odd little dream with the mild-mannered intruder.

He hones in on Melanie's room without further incident, passes a hand over it to undo each of the five locks, and steps inside.

She's there, as small and innocent as she looked in the dream (can this child really be dangerous?), reading a book that looks much too complex for a ten-year-old.

"Hello again," he says pleasantly.
johnny_truant: (paranoid little fuck)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
Fuuuuck this. After sending his last text to the TARDIS, Johnny all but throws his phone angrily onto the bed, gets to his feet and puts on his shoes. He's burning with indignation, disbelief, most of all hurt - hurt that she would ever imply he doesn't care about her, hurt that the things that matter to him don't seem to matter to her - and why should they, he thinks even more angrily, she's greater and older and infinitely more than him, why should his petty little life have ever mattered to her at all? - but he shoves it all aside, buries it down to be dealt with later. Charley needs someone to get her out of there, and if Gabe and the TARDIS aren't willing to play along, then he'll have to be that someone. Anyway it's about time he did something useful.

His phone buzzes with a few more texts, but he's not interested in anything else either of them have to say right now. He draws a breath and huffs it out, then draws another and exhales slowly, trying to clear his head.

He places his palm against the closet door, fingers splayed, lets his eyes flutter closed, and focuses on Charley.

He still doesn't really know how this power works. If he can go anywhere he wants, or can only move within a certain circuit, or has to know where he's going - this isn't even something he wants to have, or get better at. But it's all he's got going for him, he can't deny that. He'll have to use it.

Keep breathing. It'll be okay.

He tries to picture Charley in a cell, any cell, he supposes it doesn't really matter. As the mental image solidifies, he feels a tingling in his fingers, a sort of numb, buzzing sensation. He doesn't really like it, but it does mean something's happened.

He opens his eyes, drops his hand to the doorknob, and opens up, holding his breath.
adventuressing: (uhhh)
[personal profile] adventuressing
It's a mission, and accordingly, Charley is back in her utilitarian Viyran blacks; she's got her PT wristband set to what she really hopes are the right co-ordinates, and an ion bonder in one of the cargo pockets of her trousers. In part of her brain, she'd always thought of the ion bonder as the outer-space stun gun equivalent of the delicate derringers ladies kept in their clutches in American films; discreet, but very effective. She's hoping she won't have to use it, but better to be safe than sorry.

It was the Martian she'd met some days ago who'd managed to track the Doctor down for her. Tracking, apparently, is what he does. But not breaking and entering; he'd said something about his onus not extending to illegally forcing entry into highly secure facilities for human females to whom he was a stranger, and Charley hadn't been able to argue with that. So here she is, leaning against the wall in the shade of the tower across from ROMAC's headquarters. She's about to activate her teleport when it occurs to her that possibly she ought to tell someone where she's going, in case something goes wrong, and she digs out her phone and sends a quick message to Johnny. Always good to have a backup plan.

And then, with a quick glance to make sure that no-one can see her, she hits the button on her wristband, and vanishes. Being Viyran technology, it is remarkably efficient, and she reappears quite silently, without any disorientation, in a corridor. The walls and floor alike are concrete, the floor shiny, and the whole length of the place is lit with fluorescent lights that lend a slightly blue cast to everything. The air feels recycled, but there's a particular cool feel to it, dank on her skin, that makes her suspect she's exactly where she wanted to end up; the sub-basement level of the building. All along the corridor, until it turns a corner, there are doors recessed into the walls at uneven intervals.

All right, Charlotte, she thinks to herself, drawing a bracing breath, you just have to find the one the Doctor's behind. Simple.

Simple. She hopes.

Her boots are not made for sneaking; they're heavy black leather, with thick rubber soles, and Charley winces every time they squeak against the polished floor. Even her trousers, which are loose and easy to move in, make noise as she walks, and the zhoosh of fabric chafing against fabric seems unfairly loud. Concrete, she reflects, has unfortunately excellent acoustics.

And then a guard rounds the corner. He sees her immediately; there is scarce else in the corridor to look at. She curses. 'Bugger,' and then, 'Sorry!' as she pulls out her ion bonder and stuns him with a wave of green light before he's even halfway through his shout of Hey, you!

The guard crumples to the floor, and the shout resounds, half-finished, off the walls. Charley stands frozen in place for the space of a few pounding heartbeats, ion bonder still out and primed, but no-one else seems to have heard. All her breath rushes out of her at once, and she hurries to drag his unconscious body into one of the door alcoves before moving on. Some of the doors are just blank metal (some of those she dares attempt to open, giving an officious little nod should anyone be inside, and hoping hoping hoping they take her for a higher-up of some variety doing rounds), but some have little windows, slots with thick glass and delicate-looking chain link in the double-glazing that she peers through, searching for any sign of the Doctor, or indeed anything that looked like a holding cell.

The windows are just a little too high for her to look through comfortably; she has to crane her neck and push up on her toes. She's so distracted by the annoyance of the effort and her attempt to scour all the corners of the room through the tiny window that she doesn't hear the footsteps.

'Don't move,' says a voice, only a few feet away.

Charley freezes for a moment, skin going tight with the icy shock of discovery, and then she does move, swinging around to offer the guard the brightest, most innocent smile she can manage. It's a woman, taller than Charley but not that tall, a taser in her hands, and an expression that suggests she is not one to be fooled around. Blast, bugger, and blast.

'Um, hello,' Charley says, still smiling. 'I... realise that this must look rather suspicious, but I promise you it is... not what it seems. I am, ah, I'm inspecting things! Making sure your security is all top hole and all that. And so it is! Very impressive. All this... concrete.'

'Top hole, huh?' the woman repeats, and, keeping her taser trained on Charley, pulls something that looks to Charley like a cross between a two-way radio and one of those fancy smartphones from her belt, and hits a few buttons, lifting it to her mouth. 'I've got an intruder. Another one, yeah, I know. High-security area, near the cells; no idea how she got in. Should I--? Ok, ok, yeah, sure. Later, then.'

The phone-radio-thing returns to its holster, and the woman jerks the taser for Charley to follow her. Not seeing much option, Charley does as she's bidden.

Twenty minutes later, having endured a pat-down that's left her dignity in tatters, and relieved of teleport, ion bonder, and phone, Charley is transferred over to another guard, this one a burly man. No weapon, she can't fight him; no teleport, she can't get out. Hell.

'Look,' she tries to adopt a firm-but-reasonable tone, 'If only I could talk with someone instead of you just locking me up; it really isn't necessary.'

The guard, apparently, is immune to firm-but-reasonable tones, and minutes later, she's shoved unceremoniously into a cell, the same concrete as the rest of the complex, a little anteroom  and then the larger cell through a doorless doorway. As the guard locks the door, Charley abandons all attempts at reason and simply shouts, pressing herself up against it. 'Oi! Come on, this--'

But it's no good; she can't see the guard, but she can hear his retreating footsteps, and she falls back a little from the door, scowling at it. 'Damn.'

jennifer_strange: (dubious)
[personal profile] jennifer_strange
The day after Aglet's arrival, Jennifer had headed to Romac with his registration forms, which she'd filled out to the best of her ability. She's confident that there's enough information for Barry to make sense of, and hopes, for the Borrower's sake, that no one else will insist on interviewing him. Given how terrified he was when he first met her, and his continuing tendency to get twitchy whenever she gets a little too close, she's guessing he wouldn't appreciate meeting any new 'Beans.'

She'd made it to HQ without any hiccups, despite having the beast with her. Leaving it at her flat hadn't seemed wise; she knew Aglet would have been terrified to be left alone with it, and she didn't know if the beast would stay put, or if it would just chew through the door so it could follow her. Fortunately, the puffy little coat and booties she'd dressed it in did a good job of hiding its actual appearance, and no one had looked twice at it the whole way over.

But all that good fortune had to end sometime, and as she walks down an unfamiliar hallway on what is quite possibly the wrong floor, she reluctantly concludes that she's lost. Apparently, she wasn't as certain of where Barry's office was located as she thought she was. Damn.

Well, better to admit the error and get help than continue to wander about the tower like an idiot. There's an open door a few meters away that's spilling natural light into the hall, and she approaches it with her shoulders squared and the Quarkbeast trotting by her side. A peek into the office reveals a young man at a computer, and she gently raps a knuckle against the open door.

"Excuse me - sorry to bother you, but I'm a bit lost."


bigapplesauce: (Default)
The Big Applesauce


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