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 and then we cracked the sky [18+], men, monsters & the worst road trip ever
XANDER
 Posted: Jun 5 2011, 04:47 PM
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When he is not globe-trotting for his job, Solberg lives alone on the eastern seaboard. Italy is too sleepy and redolent for him, too artistic, too warm. As a permanent bachelor and a man who despises ineptitude, he does know how to cook. He is unexceptional: neither brilliant nor awful. The strangeness occurs in that he has an audience now, when so often his company is music, the sounds of the beach, or silence. He runs the pan under water to dispel the dust, and when he's satisfied, he flips the stove dial to 'LOW' and flicks a dollop of butter into the pan. His movements are soothingly mechanical.

If he feels Max's stare (and certainly he must), Solberg does not signal it. He fetches a bowl from a higher cupboard. The eggs are whisked from bright golden yolks and clear sticky albumen to pale drippy sunshine , and poured over the butter. Of course Max could shoot him. Now, in fact, would be the best time to shoot Solberg -- take the laptop, take his money, take the car and fuck off. If Max chooses this, Solberg is virtually defenseless; paranoia won't save him from an expert gunman. Nor will tears, or any other great emotion. What good does it do to speculate?

Solberg leans back against the counter, to the side of the stove, as his omelet cooks. It's more courtesy than sincerity that has him lifting his eyes to Max when the man speaks again. He makes no attempt to smile or joke; his body language proclaims, 'I know you don't care, why are you bothering.' The time to be won over has been snuffed, but old habits die hard. Solberg nudges the conversation along. "To San Francisco?"

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bird
 Posted: Jun 6 2011, 09:45 AM
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Like most things, the reality is mundane. San Francisco just another big, anonymous city; quiet enough, with a seedy enough underbelly that an illegal alien of Max's field of expertise might easily find a job. He's not fond of it, but he hasn't lived long here in any case. Other than the more unfortunate details of employment in the years after leaving Russia, wherever he ends up, Max is mostly a quiet man, keeping his head down, sleeping with one eye open and a pistol in the mattress. Solberg knows more about him from the last few weeks than he has ever volunteered to another soul. The realization is discomforting.

At least the winters are mild.

I followed the work. He shrugs, rubbing a palm over the dishwater thatch of his hair. Besides, it's warmer here.

He sighs, and considers the fridge. The beer is no good, but there's vodka in the freezer: cold and pleasantly tasteless, inoffensively smooth, the glass a tempting lens through which to view the world more clearly. He briefly entertains the thought, but it's too early in the afternoon to become a cliche, and much too soon to be reminded of last night.

Why were you in Reno? Nevada feels like years ago, but Max is tired of answering questions. He is conscious of his mouth moving, like a wind-up toy that somebody broke.

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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 6 2011, 10:23 AM
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Solberg does not become distracted enough to abandon his omelet. A plate is fetched while Max ponders. It's warmer here. He hums softly. He prods at the egg, finds it still too soft, and turns back to Max. Solberg is standing there, the fork in his hand, his body twisted towards the stove with his eyes on the Russian, when he is asked this strange, strange question, and he laughs before he thinks better of it. The way the sound comes out makes it seem like it was punched from his gut, a warped exhale of air. "Hah!"

Pointing with his fork, he echoes, "Why was I in Reno?" He struggles to imagine how it must have looked to outsiders -- guarding one man in one city, one man who comes and goes and sit alone, who says little and smiles only for show. Security became a more obvious priority when Solberg touched down in Ho Chi Minh City, but the months in Reno were quieter, albeit heartrending. Success was paramount and Solberg wasn't sure he could pull it off, he hadn't been called in soon enough, people weren't trusting him. But no one has heard any of this. Solberg has never confessed his doubts. If he explains Reno, he's close to explaining himself.

Luckily there's the omelet, so he gets to turn back to it and fold two opposite edges over the center as he speaks, before he dumps it from the pan. "I was working towards my transfer to Vietnam." Once his food is on the plate, he begins to cut it into pieces with his fork. "I knew the main project was not in Reno -- southeast Asia was most probable -- but I had to be promoted to find out. And to be moved there." The fork clinks on the plate. It sounds like nervousness. Then Solberg turns off the stove and moves the pan to the back burner, and picks up his plate and holds it to his chest like a tiny china shield, and pops food into his mouth so he can chew instead of speak.

A drink would be splendid if they didn't have to drink together.
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bird
 Posted: Jun 10 2011, 09:36 PM
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If any of Solberg's words, or his laughter have any effect on him, it doesn't show. He leans against the door frame, worrying at a callus on his palm with a thumbnail for a while, quiet while Solberg putters around the kitchen.

More than half of the guards were with you in Reno. It doesn't fit. You didn't need us. Why the security?

He raises his eyes, cool and level. There's no blame in his voice, just curiousity. In Vietnam their mandate was clear, but there they had been a small army of ex-military and common street thugs, pretending at being bodyguards and only ever that, marching in a holding pattern for an exorbitant fee. Max recalls their broken bodies, but already their faces are beginning to slip. There are other questions, too about the laptop, about the road out of California and about where it, and they, will go. All of them spokes on a wheel, whirling about a common center: who are you, Solberg? Even a coward on the wrong side of a gun couldn't say.

Max doesn't ask those questions now. Logistics are easier. Tangible. As he looks away, brushing past Solberg with his plate of eggs to click the stove off and fill the mug once more with water, he wonders when the last time anyone called Solberg by his first name was. Even in his head, it doesn't stick.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 13 2011, 05:13 AM
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Solberg is a man who pretends to be other men for a living, and who he is is not a question he enjoys asking himself. Solberg is what he does, and Solberg succeeds. Beyond that, he is empty-handed.

It has come time to admit a few things, and part of his job has always been soliciting admissions without reciprocation. Max is lucky today. Solberg still feels a bit guilty about Chiba. He frowns at his eggs and his shoulders tense, but he answers. "I did need you." There's no elaboration for a little while. The way he eats now is so human, so real; in restaurants across the world he has seemed elegant and mechanical. Now there's a vague hunch to him, and his eyebrows are knit together, as though his meal has wronged him.

"Sometimes," he says, "people try to kill me."

He breathes out his nose. "I like to be ready for that."

How many hours has he spent, waiting, ready? How many days? How many nights? He has lost track. Being murdered, in some way, would feel like a personal failing. And he is chronically intolerant of failure.
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bird
 Posted: Jun 18 2011, 03:56 PM
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You needed me, Max snorts, and it's as much a joke as a question. He watches the fork click against the plate, the stoop of Solberg's shoulders, and the wry grin that comes with it soon just about dies.

Try to kill me. He frowns at the specific. There are operations that need to be jeopardized and information that needs to be torn from grasping fingers, and it's men like Max who are hired to keep that from happening. This he knows. But premeditated murder strikes him as atypically messy for their corporate masters; Solberg's predecessor lived, after alll, lived to be blacklisted and bankrupted and to have his life torn to pieces, but lived all the same. Hanoi would never have happened in the neat, orderly, distant world of the recent past.

It occurs to him that this is something that he should be rightfully irritated about if something had happened in Reno they would have been unprepared and uninformed and at a considerable disadvantage. Twenty-odd men placed needlessly at risk for the sake of secrecy, turned into unwitting human shields. Max seldom even carried a gun, in those days. But those men are dead, and that time is gone, and he is tired of being angry. Solberg will likely cost him many bullets yet.

He sighs and folds his arms across his chest. Who was trying to kill you? But this is an unwieldy question, and he swallows water around it only to substitute it with another one. Why?
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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 25 2011, 09:21 AM
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Solberg, who keeps eating whenever he doesn't have to talk, chokes on his eggs. There's a harsh cough and he covers his mouth with one hand, and then swallows past the unpleasant twitching of his throat. He deliberately suppresses any more gagging or noise. The fork is precariously balanced on the plate.

Max's words are too close to the truth. Maybe they weren't true then; maybe that wasn't ever Solberg's intention; but it's true now, and he looks guilty. He burns away the last of his free silence by finishing his eggs, and then depositing the plate in the sink. He speaks as he turns. "It depends." One hand goes to rub the back of his neck, and finally his back is to Max, so he can swallow and close his eyes. There are things Solberg doesn't like to think about, much less discuss. But this is penance. It's an exchange. He believes himself to be purchasing tolerance, if not trust.

"Sometimes people think I'm a loose end that should be tied up." He turns on the sink and doesn't raise his voice; it's harder to hear him through the running water. "Or they start to doubt that I will succeed, that I will expose them. There have been -- a handful of incidents." Considering the money involved in this job-and-world-gone-wrong, there was a certain level of risk and time sensitivity that Solberg was disingenuous about. But in his mind, body guards were always meant as human shields, hired to take damage, paid to potentially sacrifice themselves. Perhaps he never even though of Max as a person before, and that is one more level of adjustment.
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bird
 Posted: Jun 25 2011, 11:46 PM
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"A handful," Max deadpans. He's good at it.

How many incidents, now? How many of them were like Hanoi? How many men have died for Solberg by now? Of course he doesn't keep a tally. Of course it doesn't matter. Духи, салаги. It didn't matter then and it doesn't matter now. He unpins his gaze from the nape of Solberg's neck to fling it at the window.

And sees Hanoi, again. The clean shot, the arm around his throat -- enough incidents, then, for a man like Vincenzo Solberg to learn how to shoot, to need to learn how to shoot, that, even now, twenty feet of open ground is terrifying. Enough that a very rich man, by all accounts, should spend his millions on safehouses rather than yachts, waiting and ready for a private hell and now confronted with a public onel. Still, why care? Why not just walk? His bag is packed, his guns in the living room, his anger and contempt still hard and heavy in his chest and yet impossible, right at this moment, to muster. It's not threats, empty or not, that are keeping him here. Max finds himself wondering at his sympathies.

"Solberg," he says. He sounds exasperated, weary. He doesn't raise his voice. You need to tell me these things. Familiar furrows crack into his brow. Looking back, he finds words that Solberg will, perhaps, better understand. I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm dealing with. Maybe not even then, but this he doesn't say because it's a given. But it's not can't that Solberg fears, but won't. Max doesn't say it, but even unspoken, it can be read plainly in the quiet rush of water, the hardness around his eyes. He peels from the wall and steps close, his arms still folded across his chest, a looming wall over Solberg's shoulder.

"Who wants you dead?"
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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 12:03 AM
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It's finally too much, too much of the truth, too much of himself -- too much vulnerability. And isn't that what he hates -- vulnerability? So much that he has kept parades of gunmen and a stockpile of weapons? His hands are shaking when he sets the plate on the drying rack. The scar on his arm still speaks to hysteria, to his fears of failure and death, but right now he doesn't have a knife and that is why he whirls around and starts shouting.

"There was nothing to tell!" He looks angry but moreover Solberg looks scared, as if Max is physically backing him into a corner -- which, for good measure, he does, when comes near. The kitchen is small and the distance between them easily closed. The apartment is so quiet with the running water off. And Solberg doesn't look himself without his jacket and tie, without a backdrop of serenity. And now he's yelling.

"Why would I hire armed guards if there wasn't something to worry about, hmmm? Why?" Do you think I'm paranoid? He crosses his arms and unthinkingly his hand goes to the gauze beneath his sleeve. "There's always a chance that a client will change their mind or want to back out. Always. And there's always a chance that client thinks--" Leaning back against the sink, he twirls his index finger in a circle. "--it's better to wrap everything up." He hasn't asked himself yet what he will do if Max just leaves, if Max doesn't kill him but just leaves.

And then Max asks the wrong question, or at least uses the wrong words, and Solberg's eyes snap shut. He smiles, and his voice softens into near inaudibility. "A lot of people want me dead, Max." But who is trying to kill him?

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bird
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 03:44 AM
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The dense, hot quiet in the kitchen shatters. Max is conscious first of a fine mist of spittle against his cheek, then of words, and lastly of his hand unfolding from his chest and finding purchase in Solberg's arm as the other man wheels on him. It's reflex; simple, thoughtless motion, driven by the habits of violence and the noise against the plaster, but it keeps their bodies close even as Solberg quiets and leans away.

"This isn't about clients," he says. He is trying to choose his words carefully, calmly, but even so the edges of every syllable sharpen to a point. Was clients Hanoi, a full operation of trained American mercenaries to ambush and infiltrate an entire hotel building without any regard for consequences? Would there be a repeat performance? What, other than the dogs and Praxis, will they have to run from, and how far can Max trust in Solberg's assurances of manufactured luck? The words snarl out, faster than he can catch them, "And all of your guards are dead."

The faucet drips. Max looks first at Solberg's fingers on the gauze; then, at his own fingers tight around the other man's bicep. The pressure quickly leaves his grip, but already they have lingered far too long. He lets go, quickly, and his hands become awkward, not quite knowing what to do with themselves. His body, though, stays stubbornly in place.

"If you want me to help you, I need to know," he says. His voice, too, softens, and there's sympathy in his eyes that Max doesn't find it within himself to question. Time enough to walk away, still, but as he breathes out, he knows, in some small way, what he resigns himself to. "Who."
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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 05:54 AM
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Solberg's fingers, curled into his forearms, would be shaking if they were not occupied. He can't do this. He doesn't know how. He is terrified once more, not of something concrete, like death, or even abstract, like failure: it is something in-between, something murky half-there, something in how Max asked to see his arm in the village, something like that. His foundations shake in this new world, but he bears them; to bear this too is too much. Max's grip is tight around his bicep and Solberg cannot run. He can only breathe, and there is a quaver to it. Finally, he silences that, too.

All of your guards are dead.

Without thinking he ripostes, "You're not dead."

Solberg opens his eyes, and immediately regrets it, because Max looks at him with sympathy -- not pity or disgust, not hate, not anger, and for the longest moments he is trapped in it, in this outreach of human feeling that is so foreign to him. When his eyes drop, it suddenly occurs to him that Max is a good person, truly good, and Solberg does not deserve him, probably never has. And there it is, that sad truth beneath it all, because one purchases things that one cannot earn by personal merit.

"Why are you helping me?" It is a battle to lift his eyes, waged against his designs for dignity and shelter. It is one question, but it is not the right question, it is not the actual question, and Solberg finally spits it out, even as his heart pounds and he fears that this could drive the final wedge between them, that it will be a self-fulfilling prophecy. "Why don't you leave me?"

And if you walk away from me, Zhaitsev, you will die, because somewhere in that, someone or something will kill you, and you will be a martyr, rendered useless, rendered insufficient, wasted.

The words that were ripe in Hanoi rot in San Francisco in this small, stuffy apartment.
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bird
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 07:51 AM
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Max fumbles.

He's not sure for himself, not entirely. If Max peers and dissects his own motivations closely, with a clear and honest eye, everything becomes muddled and uncertain. In large part he remains out of simple, blind faith in Solberg's designs for the contents of the laptop, lacking the connections and knowledge to do it on his own; hoping that somehow, maybe, with it, someone with more capable hands will fix the broken world. It isn't just altruism, though, that keeps him here. There's money too, of course, but paying off the usual costs of life seems somehow much less necessary, now that half a continent is a radioactive waste and there are guns at every border. And though some part of him worries that Solberg will make good on his threats and there will be even less of the world for Max to run to, he doesn't much believe that these things will hold much clout any more, nor that Solberg will even follow through.

But if he turned on his heel now, if he took the bag in the living room and started driving if, if what? Even now, with all the practical necessities right there in front of him, he can't quite complete the thought of it, watching silently while Solberg seems to tremble like an aspen in the middle of the kitchen, scalding with the dense California summer air. It's in that heavy, unyielding quiet, that he feels the weight of it then, the thing that keeps him here. It sinks in his chest like a brick.

"I'm not leaving," he says, quietly. At first his palm settles into on the bones of the other man's shoulder, and he thinks to leave it there. But they are close, and soon the weight of their bodies pulls towards a common center; Max's arms pulled around Solberg's shoulders, Solberg's head slotting neatly into the hollow of his throat. I'm not.

And he knows, then, that he isn't lying -- because leaving is part of the same equation as being left; because the world is cruel and vast and ending and even this is easier than facing it; because the why that Solberg asks for isn't at all what matters. Because Max has been afraid and on his own for a very, very long time.

Beyond the dusty window the summer sky is blue and clear and somehow impossible, for all the things the earth under it contains. Max looks away from it, looks at nothing for a while, thinking only of the smell of warm skin and the weight of limbs.

Might as well not face the beasts of hell alone.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 09:11 AM
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Max could kill him, or leave him. Solberg is more afraid of the latter. Uncertainty has been a strictly controlled variable in his life, until a little over a week ago, when the world started to end.

He says I'm not leaving and Solberg wants to ask Why, why aren't you leaving? but Max takes another step towards him and there's nowhere to go, there's nothing to say, for a second he's afraid he's about to be strangled or crushed but once again, the truth, while much less violent, is much more frightening. He reflexively lifts his arms and his palms end up flat against Max's chest, where, for a few moments, they neither push nor pull. He takes a deep, audible breath to steady himself and inhales the smell of skin, of this man, a man he owes his life to.

There should be pride, there should be rejection, he should be strong enough to be beyond this, il dolore per i perdenti, but he, too, has been alone. Often he forgot their difference in height and weight in favor of remembering the balance of power, but Solberg is again reminded that he is smaller, that he can be held. He cannot muster up shame when there is relief. He breathes in again and thinks that he likes the way Max smells, and that's when he slips his arms out and curls them around Max's neck, though he has to reach high and up to do so. Solberg still smells clean and fresh from the shower.

Solberg thinks that he could try to be a good person, if Max will protect him from the things that are bad.

His eyes stay open and the warmth of another body sinks into his skin. It is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. His heart beats like he's running a marathon.

"It is Praxis." To say this he turns his head, laying it sideways on Max's chest. He makes no move to let go as he speaks; it is easier to talk this way. Still, he speaks quickly. "Part of my contracting fee is my security detail. It gets written off most of the time. So -- Praxis knew how many people I had. I had been collecting information -- employee rosters, meeting schedules, experimental data, company memos -- and writing them reports, but not giving them anything substantial. If I did that they could cut me off and not pay me." Unconsciously he folds his hands behind Max's neck. "I finally managed to get hard data -- patented formulas and machine schematics -- right before--" Does he have to say it? Are they always going to say it? Have they even decided what to call it? "--before the reactor melted down. After it -- happened, I told Praxis the deal was off." He speaks his words to a plain t-shirt and muscle. Somewhere in his murmuring, there is gratitude.
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bird
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 02:24 PM
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Where Solberg fears being touched, so Max has been told not to; to always be excruciatingly careful, and better yet, to hurt. For a moment he's afraid of what will come out of it. He's half-expecting a particularly vehement fuck off or a set of knuckles to the face, some half-assed apology hovering at the ready on the tip of his tongue because this is a stupid, impulsive gesture, worth nothing, accomplishing nothing.

But instead nothing happens, not for a long time. His arms tangle around Solberg, who seems suddenly much smaller, and neither ofthem make effort to push their bodies apart. Then Solberg speaks and says Praxis, and Max listens, feeling the weight of those words as much as he hears them-- warm through the thin fabric, vibrating softly against his skin. Around them, the air conditioning sputters valiantly, the kitchen counter a solid intrusion against his hip.

So, he murmurs, mostly to himself. Hanoi. American mercenaries sent by Praxis, enforcers of the terms of the contract, following them up the verdant coast from Saigon and into the city between the rivers, the dragon's concrete belly. There, he remembers the blood in the air, flowing in rivultets down the steps, the crack left by a tooth in the wall. Little details like these always seem to stick with him. It's the rest of it that's difficult to swallow, as he recalls his words and remembers how certain he was, how adamant. His breath catches in his chest, chewing out a guilty hollow, and drunkenly, in Chiba, he turns his back once again on that restless skyline. I made errors of judgement, he says, Before. For a long time he says nothing. Fingers close around his neck, and bitterly, he realizes that it's just about the only thing that he got right.

I didn't know, he says, at last. He swallows hard before he speaks, Solberg's pulse thrumming rabbit-hearted against the flat of his palm. I'm sorry. He pulls away, not enough to break the seal of fingers around his neck or to pull Solberg from his chest, but enough to look.

The laptop, with its payload, hums softly in the other room.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jun 26 2011, 04:10 PM
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To be touched is to be vulnerable. To touch others is -- different. Making first contact is to set the stage and initiate maneuvers, to be sure of one's self and to be in control. Even this was a sparsely used trick in Solberg's bag. His isolation was made complete by physical aloofness. He was above ruin and distraction, above humanity, immune. But he can't fake invulnerability anymore. He can't tell Max to fuck off for giving a damn.

Praxis Multinational. It makes Solberg think of a spider and its web. He wonders if they are looking for him, even now -- if they've dared to believe that he escaped Hanoi, got out of Vietnam altogether. It is a statistical improbability. He still feels his skin crawl.

He can't stay here forever. He can't keep breathing in gun polish and faint sweat and deodorant, can't hide in Max's arms in all the uncertain hours to come. Self-consciousness strikes him when Max leans back enough to look down on him, and Solberg becomes aware of what this means, what it could mean, and his hands slink down to Max's shoulders. There is no judgment in his voice when he says, "Don't be sorry. It's part of the job." Solberg was paid to live in fear. And, as he had calculated, his security detail was paid to die.

Except for Max, who is still here -- who is the one that lived. If it had been anyone else--

Solberg intended to let go, but his hands just slide and rest on Max's biceps, on the curves of neck-breaking muscle. "I might be the only person who has Alcheon's vital data." The longer Max touches him, the more he adjusts to it. It becomes -- normalized. Red flags shoot up somewhere in his brain, but Solberg ignores them. If nothing else, he feels entitled to scraps of reassurance, in whatever form they are offered.
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