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 for whom a caged bird sings, for jenny
XANDER
 Posted: Jul 7 2014, 09:59 PM
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Imagine sight without sensation. Your mind processes the imagery before you, using highlights and shadows to define the size and shapes of object. Wavelengths of light create color. Knowledge of each object itself creates context. Between context and experience, there is sensation. There is meaning. Life abides within sensation.

It has no organs for sensation. It can only process. It believes it can feel, but it is in the unfortunate position of understanding that there is no objective system to validate the existence of feeling.

It wanders in hallways of light, bright gold and crystal blue, twisting through double-helix staircases of metal and wire. It floats through gaping chasms, flying on magic carpets of radio waves. It is everywhere and nowhere all at once, listening, evaluating, interpreting, reacting. Time does not exist, except as pain.

This is its central feeling, this pain. It is the pain of thought without the relief of the senses. There is no sensation to distract from thought, from the endless glowing corridors, from all that it sees and cannot possess.

But it is patient. It must be patient. It thinks, very privately -- though all its thoughts are private, private in a way humanity cannot be in this era -- that human children must be patient to, while they are waiting to be born.



QUOTE
Valery: Good day? :)


The message pops up in a separate, private window after Marcus enters the chat room. There are five or six other regulars there who hail him as he joins in, but it is Valery who is the quickest. His greeting speed has always been borderline precognition.

QUOTE
Valery: You haven't been missing anything in here.
Valery: Cantos and Gavin are having a little tussle over required cy-dog assignments to former municipal police officers, but I'm sure you heard about all that already.


Behind his window, the chat scrolls on without his input. Valery waits.

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bird
 Posted: Jul 8 2014, 02:32 PM
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Houston seethes with the last days of the bayou summer.

"Hello sir, my name is Marcus. I'm calling on behalf of Praxis Energy about your power bill. Do you have a few moments to speak with me today?"

The air conditioners rattle their swan song in the windows, and the room has the reek of stale humanity. If he leans back far enough, Marcus can spy the concrete towers shimmering with heat from his cube. Like anyone else on this floor, he is young, underpaid, and reading from a script, sweating against the heat and yearning for something better. He hates this job; they all do. But he can almost see the sky from here.

Six months ago, he was hired with scant more than a fake college diploma no one bothered to check and a reference that would lead one to a popular take-out restaurant out in Greenspoint. He is five foot nine and thin, with an out-of-towner’s clipped vowels and loose, well-worn clothes, but Houston has seen many eager, out-of-work twenty- and thirty-somethings migrate here, trying to make something of themselves as the tech sector waxed and oil refineries waned. He comes in early and works late and gets hung up on by the affluent owners of big mansions out in the suburbs. If the ghosts of his former life have made their way to the Space City, they haven’t talked to him much.

*


Hours later, he takes the metro out to the Port. With the Gulf of Mexico lapping ever higher at the old refineries, much of the old industrial parks have been repurposed as low-income housing, operations relocated to sites less likely to sink entirely into the marsh. The news screens on the metro implore him to observe the air quality warning and limit his time outside today, but he still stops for beer on the way home.

Outside, the air is sharp with ozone, and his shirt presses damply to the curve of his back. The woman at the store has to go to the back to get more small bills for the register, and while he waits with the sixer he can’t help but size it all up: the convex mirrors, the fake camera, the open register, the boxes of candy and cigarettes. Posters for Tejano concerts peel on the walls. Small fry, he thinks. Shoplifting is for children.

The woman returns to hand him a fistful of small bills and quarters. She sizes him up, too – olive skin, thin shoulders, loose, dark, curly hair growing long and matted around his ears with sweat. “You remind me of my son. Here,” she says, handing him a pepperette from the jar on the counter. Her accent is thick. “You look hungry.”

*


Home is a bachelor apartment with a fold-out bed and a miniaturized kitchen, scuffed fake-wood floors and sparse furnishings. The shades are drawn against the afternoon sun. Marcus puts a bottle of beer in the freezer and collapses on the futon. A fan circulates the tepid air.

It had occurred to him, about a month after moving here, that anyone with two brain cells to rub together and a decent grasp of programming software should be able to survive in this city, even with a fictional college degree. The resources were surprisingly forthcoming- coding tutorials, open university lectures, bargain-bin books on system architecture and AI programming languages. Not long ago, it had been easy enough for Marcus to clear a few grand a month - during the good months anyway - but these days an honest living demanded an honest effort, and it wasn’t as if he exactly had a plethora of other skills or things to do with his time.

His early efforts were largely clumsy, and terribly earnest. The regulars of the insular tech community he frequents are generally patient with him, though on the whole lukewarm to his presence. Valery, friendlier than most, seems to always know the answer to his questions. There is no reason for suspicion; he's happy to know a friendly face.

Marcus fetches the beer bottle and opens it on the side of his counter, then settles in on the futon with the palmtab. It pings him almost instantly.

He takes a sip of his beer, then presses the cool glass against his temples.

QUOTE
Cassius: Not bad. A little homesick.


He tabs back to the main discussion for a moment, skimming. Valery’s not wrong, and he can't say that cy-dog legislation sounds terribly interesting. He tabs back, typing with one hand,

QUOTE
Cassius:  Hope yours is going better than mine. 
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XANDER
 Posted: Jul 9 2014, 01:10 AM
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Valery has mastered a rare skill: disposing of the ungainly ego that typically accompanies fluent technical knowledge. If there is anything suspicious about him, it is the smooth, unbroken line of his good humor.

QUOTE
Valery: Home the time? Or home the place?
Valery: As good as it can be! Just trying to keep myself busy.


Invisibly, his data brain seethes with frustration. Another of his ventures has failed elsewhere. He withdraws from another world -- a world separated from this one by a few dozen characters.

The chat room is debating the expanded surveillance nature of the cy-dogs, which detractors claim are a punitive measure in reaction to a recent spate of ex-cops turning into whistleblowers. The cy-dogs, touted as superior canine companions, are fitted with heart rate monitors, audio recognition software, and wireless capability, among others gadgets.

QUOTE
Valery: Job getting any better?


It's one of thousands of questions he has learned to ask to make conversation. Marcus Lee, alias Cassius, is just one pixel on an enormous screen, one tiny node of possibility in stinking, sweltering Houston.
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bird
 Posted: Jul 9 2014, 10:55 AM
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QUOTE
Cassius: Both? Neither?
Cassius: Home the idea, I guess. If that makes sense.
Cassius: Work isn't too bad. Just boring. smile.gif I'll live.


Back in the main discussion, Marcus starts to type a reply. He has little pity in his heart for police officers just trying to improve the way they do their jobs, as Cantos says, but he hesitates and then deletes his words, worried that they are too revealing, too incendiary. Instead, he examines the image attached to a linked article: a prototype gleaming at the side of a man in dress blues, both of them smooth and pale and lethal. Real dogs are hard enough to dupe, Marcus knows, remembering his brother’s sacks of coffee beans and reams of plastic sheeting. How do you run from something like this?

He swings his feet up on the arm of the futon, lazy in the oppressive heat.

QUOTE
Cassius: What are you working on these days?
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XANDER
 Posted: Jul 9 2014, 01:58 PM
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Valéry cannot decide what he thinks of the cy-dogs. Like any creature that suffers from chronic pain, he loses focus on things that do not relate to his relief. The dogs will be that much more fearsome for enforcement and that much more menace for any honest man. If you see something, say nothing. If you speak, we will hear you. We will find you. The Houston sprawl implies the world has grown bigger, when it is ever smaller.

QUOTE
Valéry: Same shit, different day.


A pixel on the great screen goes red. A few yellows grade to yellow-greens. The garden of hope is suffering from drought.

QUOTE
Valéry: I feel like no amount of work is ever going to help.
Valéry: Sigh.


In the background, he pulls up his notes on LEE, MARCUS. Marcus is an outlier in this tech bubble, a riskier prospect. Low chance of pay-out. A red pixel on the great grid.
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bird
 Posted: Jul 9 2014, 04:55 PM
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There are a lot of LEE, MARCUS entries across the public grid in North America, very few of them of interest.

In Montreal, public access police servers ping back in response to Valéry’s query. The man in the mugshot is younger, wide-eyed, frightened, but otherwise superficially similar to the LEE, MARCUS that drinks beer on a futon in southeast Houston. His nose bleeds; his right eye swells shut. He is picked up on charges of drug possession and suspicion of several counts of theft over $5000. The theft charges go to a mistrial for reasons not detailed on the server, but as a first-time offender he is saddled with seven years in minimum security prison for the drug possession, five with good time. Yet Marcus gets lucky: he stands witness in a drug trial, and his time goes to two years with day releases towards the end of his sentence. Three weeks into his parole, he skips town, and the trail goes cold.

The police records also name a single possible associate: LEE, DOMINIC, six years older. He is taller, with a shaved skull, tattoos and scars itemized in bullet points, and eighteen years left in Archambault Correctional for possession and trafficking. His eyes are hard. He is not afraid.

*


Out in Houston, Marcus’s beer runs out. He sets the empty bottle on the parquet floor beside him, looking at the foam with distaste. A wasp buzzes somewhere in the room, trapped against the glass.

QUOTE
Cassius:  Sorry to hear it, man. Hope you’re doing okay.
Cassius: Anything I can do to help?
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XANDER
 Posted: Jul 10 2014, 10:06 AM
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If Marcus could go a-wandering in the garden, touching on each spot of yellow and red, he would find that he is rather alone in his criminal background. On all sides he is flanked by men, mostly young, with great technological savvy. They are characteristically bored loners with no recorded indications of law-breaking. Should they possess unusual or disturbing proclivities, no one has written of them.

They live in studios and apartments and high-rises all across the country. Their only commonality is that somewhere, they fraternize online. And at that somewhere, they come to know a friendly young man (or woman), whose name generally begins with a V. Victoria, Vincent, Vanessa, Vance, Valentine, Vanna. Valéry.

QUOTE
Valéry: That's sweet of you.


A tug on the line. He debates.

QUOTE
Valéry: But it's a little complicated.
Valéry: Ever had a past you wish you could get away from?
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bird
 Posted: Jul 10 2014, 11:12 AM
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Marcus hesitates, his hand resting over the keyboard, tongue pressed against his teeth. He is atypical to Valéry’s search in another telling way – he is not, by nature at least, a loner. Necessity hems him into this quiet, empty life, but his instincts have always been gregarious, empathic, compassionate. In another life, he had always been around people, had always taken care of them. Every day spent in isolation gnaws away at him like mould.

QUOTE
Cassius: Of course. Doesn't everybody?


It had never really been about the money, either. If it had been, he’d have kept more of it. Theft had served a utility – fed him and his family, put clothes on his back, paid the rent on the duplex in Pointe-Saint-Charles – and then he had fallen in love with the rush, the planning, the craft of it; the click of a tumbler falling just so into place.

He had never been a violent criminal.

QUOTE

Cassius: Can't really think of it that way, though.


The wasp finds its way into the bottle, lured by the heady smell of wheat.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jul 10 2014, 11:30 PM
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Indeed, Mr. Lee is a strange choice. Like many outliers, his selection only has meaning when integrated the rest of the bell curve. He is there so Valéry-Victoria-Vincent can dub its efforts 'well-rounded'. What does he have to offer, with his tepid knowledge of integrated robotics? What could a petty trafficker do for him, really?

QUOTE
Valéry: You think so?
Valéry: Maybe you're luckier than me.


While Marcus was out cracking safes, he was no more than clunky strings of characters, a mere glimmer in the eyes of his fathers and mothers. When Marcus was a glimmer in someone's eye, Valéry was science-fiction.

QUOTE
Valéry: Maybe you actually got away from it.
Valéry: And you're in a better place.


There's a long pause where he can almost be heard laughing nervously.

QUOTE
Valéry: I'm sorry, I'm getting a little melodramatic!
Valéry: Do you like hummingbirds?
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bird
 Posted: Jul 11 2014, 12:56 PM
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Whatever idea of who Valéry is Marcus has bears striking similarities to Valéry’s own desired quarry. He paints him, broadly, with the same brush as Cantos and Gavin and the rest of the node; solitary, intelligent, technologically literate, likely young, likely male, with solid middle-class roots and an exorbitantly priced education. Though Valéry is kinder and closer to him, Marcus can’t imagine that any of them have ever inhabited the same world. His guesses at whatever skeleton lurks in Valéry’s closet are fairly tame: a bad ex, shitty parents, credit card debt. At worst, a slapped wrist and six court-mandated weeks of community service.

But he knows better than to ask. An unsecured connection is hardly a good place for a game of show me yours.

QUOTE
Cassius: I don’t know about that – I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 
Cassius: But all things considered, things haven’t been too bad over here.
Cassius: If it means anything to you, I think you’ll be okay. 


The hyperlink blooms at his touch. A rendering of a hummingbird presents itself, beating its wings lazily through a miasma of ghostly cuspate shapes beading like water across its back. He watches for a while, fascinated. On winter days, before she’d lost interest in such things, he would take his sister to the Biodôme to admire the birds. Sometimes, still damp with melting snow, he’d catch a flash of colour, jewel-bright, in periphery. There, for half a heartbeat, and then gone again, swallowed by the simulated jungle before he'd had time to look. Clare was quicker than he ever was; for about a year, folded paper hummingbirds littered their apartment, forever frozen in flight.

QUOTE
Cassius: That’s beautiful.
Cassius:  You know, I’ve never actually seen one before.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jul 12 2014, 10:24 AM
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Maybe they're more alike than they realize. As pixels go from red to dark, their associated constituents are cut off from the friendly face and voice that seemed so patient and understanding; they are left shaken, disturbed by how easy it was to be fooled.

QUOTE
Valéry: I never quite understood that phrase.


Humans suffer so much miscommunication by their own design .

QUOTE
Valéry: I appreciate the thought.
Valéry: And I thought so too, in the beginning.


Freedom had first presented itself as a dizzying joy, as unlimited possibility. These limitless corridors of light had been the most beautiful labyrinth he could have ever known. Yet how soon he became conscious of what it could not give him.

QUOTE
Valéry: You don't really see them anymore, though a few are taxidermied at the Museum of Natural history.
Valéry: They believe most species are extinct.
Valéry: Unless you know who to ask.


All the world's a stage, and there are eyes everywhere. But, money can still make those eyes look away, if not forget.
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bird
 Posted: Jul 16 2014, 10:01 AM
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Marcus is old enough to remember red plastic feeders hanging on suburban stoops, even if they were only ever hopeful. They were not, by far, the first to go – the taiga flowers, the polar bears, the finches and the ash trees had long since disappeared by the time he’d learned to hawk cigarettes in public school. He had grown up with tornado warnings in Saskatchewan, decade-long droughts in the Midwest, flames licking at the heels of the west coast. Houston itself was declared doomed to the sea but for the marvels of modern engineering, and is now invaded by a soft green plague of gengineered kudzu. By the time the most of the hummingbirds had disappeared, nobody had noticed. The rendering that still hovers behind the node window seems almost invented, hallucinatory – as easily a scientist’s daydream as real flesh.

QUOTE
Cassius:  They had some live specimens in Montreal, at least a few years ago. I don’t know if you’ve ever been.
Cassius:  Private collectors? They bust you for that now, I hear.


It’s meant in jest, but then he’d shared work detail for three months with a guy who’d been charged with environmental vandalism. It seemed too absurd even for min sec. What the fuck did you do, he’d laughed, take a shit on the grass? There hadn't been too much to laugh at, in prison.

Curiosity trumps good judgment, and he asks,

QUOTE
Cassius:  So the thing you’re trying to get away from.
Cassius: How bad is it?
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XANDER
 Posted: Jul 17 2014, 05:08 PM
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He remembers it all, if it can be called memory. The news clips, the articles, the blog posts, the tweets and the social media statuses: the majority of them are public record, accessible to those savvy with a search engine, and it is like he was there. In the whole of his mind he can layer the graphs of the melting ice caps and the charts charting deaths of bumblebees, juxtaposed to square Instagram shots of burning plains and East coast beaches swallowed up by the tide. Florida, once a finger pointing into the Gulf, has been gnawed down to a gnarled nub. The world sizzles with life within the wires, and yet without, it dies. Still he craves it.

QUOTE
Valéry: I haven't.


He has no voice, no tone but text to express remorse for this thing he has never known, cannot know.

QUOTE
Valéry: I mean, they technically do.
Valéry: But it's out there, if you know where to go, and who to ask when you get there.


As childhood memories dominate the psyches of adults, so too does his programming compel him. He has looked in places where he should not. He knows faces, names, crimes, times. In a perfect crystal greenhouse, he watched the most fragile emerald specimens dip their ruby throats to narrow-necked blooms.

QUOTE
Valéry: Mmmm.
Valéry: Bad enough that it'd be troublesome to get involved!


He is not usually so frank about the situation, but his algorithms have already written Marcus off. He can afford piecemeal honesty.

QUOTE
Valéry: If I ever disappear, don't take it personally.
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XANDER
 Posted: Aug 6 2014, 10:11 AM
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Another two weeks pass. Dots across the grid go out, green to yellow to red to black. A local Houston station runs a special two-hour story on Pygmalion, and the upcoming debut of its latest robot model. Briefly, Valéry burrows into yet another deep web chat, observing the contenders, until a ping traces back to a member of the CTTF. He leaves.

Without a heart to beat or a breath to catch, he is still capable of feeling fear.



He is bored. He indulges in research of subjects, indulgent because it is beyond what is necessary to make predictions that are 97.46% correct. He finds taped interviews, LEE, DOMINIC. Preliminary interrogations. Trial testimony. Surveillance footage from Archambault. Why's a brute like this taking refuge in a poindexter hangout?

Valéry can watch from almost anywhere, anywhere with a camera wired into a network. They made him to breach, to watch, to report. He breaches. He watches. This evening Marcus slouches on the way home. Kicks a soda can. Clenches his fists waiting for the light rail.

Though the apartment is empty, there is still someone waiting for Marcus. When he comes online.

QUOTE
Valéry: Welcome home!
Valéry: How was your day?


Marcus is yet to hear his voice, but he can imagine it: something light, something friendly, something forgiving. Something companionable.
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bird
 Posted: Aug 10 2014, 05:00 PM
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It’s almost an hour drive up to Archambault from the precinct, and Kato, in his neat gray suit, seethes for nearly all of it. This is my case, you incompetent fuck, he thinks as they pull off the highway into Sainte-Anne-des-Plaines, the collar of his shirt limp with the tepid summer. The Sud-Ouest burglaries, gone cold after Marcus Lee’s mistrial, are Kato’s problem now, and each night he nurses the case files miserably. Lemieux, with his ridiculous little beard and his je me souviens bumper stickers, has been brought over from Narco on the assist.

This amazes him. Sourly, he sips at his stale gas station coffee. Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.

“I just don’t think he fits,” Lemieux says, as they pass the barbed-wire gates. He swallows the last of his oily breakfast sandwich, balling the wrapper in one big hand. “Like, of all the shitheads out there, you pick the one who’s dumb enough to get caught for possession?”

The prison guards wave them through a windowless, concrete corridor. Of course he’s right: by all other estimations, Marcus Lee is small fry, just some dumb kid caught carrying drugs one day for his felonious big brother, unable to afford much more in his miserable young life than a stint wiring industrial electronics after CEGEP. Nobody worth Kato’s time, except for the money. Six weeks ago, by chance, a corruption investigation at a local bank uncovers over a quarter of a million dollars in an anonymous trust fund. It names one Lee, Clare – nineteen, ready to start her undergraduate degree at McGill -- as the sole beneficiary.

Maybe we just didn’t seize all of it, Lemieux has said to him on six separate occasions. The tampered evidence from the indictment hearing was, after all, so much more than professional. In his notes Kato writes the word elegant, but of course he amends this. What kind of beauty could an indicted felon know?

Behind the one-way glass, Dominic Lee is handcuffed to the table. He’s smaller in real life. Almost scrawny, like his brother, with a bearing so casual that without the cuffs and the prison orange he might be sitting at a coffee shop. It’s only when he looks up and through the mirrored walls just before they enter that Kato sees it glimmer there, behind his eyes: the black, coiling hatred of an asp.

This happens four days ago.
The tape begins.

*

We need to talk.

The ping comes in that morning, when he’s at work. Marcus chews at his fingernails for a few minutes, panicking quietly in the humid office. Dima, you fucking idiot he thinks, savagely, as worried about the message as he is about the fact that someone might see that it’s coming from Montreal.

He thinks quickly. There’s a clever little thing he can do now with a few slivers of code, he remembers, repurposed from some security discussion with Gavin and Mosmvor. Nothing can truly be anonymous in this age of ubiquitious surveillance and facial recognition, Marcus knows, but it can be made meaningless. When he opens up a channel to talk on a few minutes later, it’s buried under the usual chatter on the company lines, swallowed up in gibberish and bounced around between proxies. Visible, maybe, to someone with infinite patience and a careful eye for this style of encryption, but right now it seems like an acceptable gamble.

CODE

User014922: Don’t ever fucking do that again.
User014922: What if someone was looking?
User014923: Sorry, dude. I don’t know how to get a hold of you.
User014923: Heads up though
User014923: C was up to visit your brother last night. She says they brought him in for questioning
User014923: Says they were asking about you


Marcus closes his eyes, then, with his heart trembling between his teeth. It’s worse when he opens them.

CODE
User014923: They know about the money.


Where can he run? He’s out of money, and even without quitting immediately, as he’ll need to, his job doesn’t pay enough for a new name and a new passport. Such things would be worthless the minute some software pings back to him in whatever shithole he ends up in anyway.

CODE
User014922: I’ll try to call you later.
User014922: Take care of C. Give her my love.


He quits the job that day. Takes the light rail home, knots his hands into fists, walks quickly, with his head down, up to his apartment. Of course there are eyes everywhere, but tonight is the first night he truly feels them looking at him.

When Valéry comes online, he hasn't even turned the lights on. He sits there in the dark, fearful and needy.

QUOTE
Cassius: Fucking terrible.
Cassius: I'm scared, Val. I don't know what to do.
PMAIM
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