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22. Tell us about one scene between your characters that you've never written or told anyone about before! Serious or not.

How about most of my work so far, because a vast majority of my scene are unwritten.

Well, there's no non-serious scene I haven't written; that seems like a weird question, seperating unwritten from serious or not, shouldn't it just matter if it's, you know, I'm getting off track here.

A legitimate unwritten scene... in planning for the Noir story, the outline at one point called for the detective (did I give him a name, I should give him a name) who Rachel is seeing to be assigned her "case", and head the RICO unit tasked with taking on her organization. It was meant to build up the tension between his work drive to take "her" down, and the juxtaposition between her knowing he was the head of unit but keeping the relationship going regardless.

I dropped that angle, and any related scene, because I figured it was too cliched to have the two big names of the story be the leaders of the opposing forces. Instead, I'm going with him being part of the organizated crime unit, but aiming at another family, picking up hints about Rachel's group through street contacts and not being stupid when it comes to noticing escalating retaliation. He eventually picks up enough hints to make a connection, but I don't think he realizes how high on the food chain she is.
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19. Favorite minor that decided to shove himself into the spotlight and why!

Can I cop out on two answers in a row? No? Fine...

I'm gonna pick Martin Carmichael from the Noir story. Originally the only reason he even got a name was because I couldn't have everyone be nameless in what became the first chapter (which now is going to need a rewrite), and he was only one of two who got that privilage. He was the lucky one, the other guy Charlie got kicked in gut.

Then, when I was inspired to continue the story, he popped in again as one of two body guard/enforcers who stay in Rachel's building. In that was a line that said he had been around the longest, and suddenly his name got bumped up a few notches on the title card. He became one of the first recruits when Rachel broke into her own, and functions as her voice to the lower ranks, allowing her to keep herself invisible as much as possible. Martin isn't a boss, but almost acts as advisor/speaker for Rachel; he's also one of the few who can question her outright, and she trusts him enough to let him question whether or not continuing a relationship with a cop is a worth what will happen if it turns sour. He loves her, but in a protective way; he is gay, after all.
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17. Favorite protagonist and why!

If I had to guess (and really, I do) I'm gonna go with Rachael from the Noir story. Feels repeatitive, but I'll try to explain without repeating myself.

Part of it is that she's just fun to write for. The story is from her perspective, so figuring out how she views things is a hoot to think for. She very analytical, but keeps a very humorously cynical outlook. It helps when you're a crime boss.

It's also fun to figure out all the different crimes she plays a part of (not that I would ever do something like that) because she tries to keep everything as business organized as she can. Certain people handle certain "franchises", everything is reported back to her, and she is ruthless in hostile negotiations. She had always wanted to be a mafia don, raised by her grandfather and his love of crime cinema; her own collection is quite extensive. It was from these, and later from police reports and books, that she studied what they did, what they did wrong, and what she figured she needed to do to get to where she wanted to be. She started as a runner at fourteen, later becoming a cleaner, then hitman, up to enforcer, then broke off on her own, the whole time still going to school (she tried to . She was careful to avoid working specifically for any one family as she wanted to make as few enemies as she could.

When the story starts, she's dealing with backlash and fallout from an unnamed incident (unnamed because I don't know what happened, and anything you come up with is bound to be better than what I make canon) while at the same time starting a relationship with a police detective not specificially assigned to "her" case, but risky none the less. All this is fun to juxtapose in her thoughts and how she sees it all. Trying to keep the two separated, and keep herself sane, is a fun challenge.
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16. Do you write romantic relationships? How do you do with those, and how “far” are you willing to go in your writing? ;)

Yes, with words, and all the way if necessary.

Oh, you want more? Fine...

I don't shy away from romance in my stories, but neither am I going to go out of my way to include one just because. It does need reason, and saying "well I have a male main character and a female main character, they should hook up" does not cut it with me.

Currently, I do have a story where romance is part of the main plot, the Noir one. The story is centered on Rachel, head don of her mafia organization, keeping her business life seperate from her new love life with a city detective. Wow, that's kinda cliched, now that I actually write that out, but I'm having fun seeing how close I can keep these two stories together without completelying crossing them. She's assertive and has always gone after what she wants, so when she wants to pursue a relationship like this, she maintains as much control over every situation as she can to be happy. Rachel walks a thin line when she talks about her work, using phrases that are technically true but have much different meanings than what the boyfriend assumes (he needs a name too), and keeping her two lives seperate. She's well aware of the concequences, but continues on anyway because she does actually love him.

I think I do alright with relationships and romance, in that they don't come off as hackneyed (I hope -.-;). When this element does come up, I'll make it as natural as I can and not "easy"; you know, "I've only seen you once, I love you long time" "I love you too, but I'm going to pretend I don't for one or more books because that's called tension and we don't have any if acted on our obvious emotions". There are fights, flirting, passion, sublty, all the things that make up real relationships. It's not easy (all the time).

As for how "far" (why is that parahesised, you want to add a "nudge-nudge, wink-wink" to that too?) I'll go, I'll go as far as the story needs and allows. So if sex needs to be seen, I'll be as tactful as I can while maintaining as much emotion as the scene needs, but depending on the story I'm not going to start having characters act different just because hormones are taking over. I'm not going to throw in a sex scene because "OMG dat's hot", because that's just pandering to the voyeur demographic. I'm not writing erotica (unless, of course, I am) so there's no point in having something that doesn't help the plot.

I've written these kind of stories before, they're fun and challenging to attempt now and again, so I'm not uncomfortable with the prospect of it. And I won't shy away from relationships forming. But overall, I'd rather not have characters whose only purpose is to be pined after and eventually bedded, because they tend to be flat and boring. Sex is boring without the passion behind it. And there's no passion in "My groin yerns for you"/"I'm attracted to you being attacted to me!".
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11. Who is your favorite character to write? Least favorite?

Of all time or just for the moment?

Well, currently (unlike [livejournal.com profile] jkoyanagi or [livejournal.com profile] limiinal I have no big masterwork in the process, and I'm jealous of both of them) I'm having a lot of fun writing for my Noir story. While not my first, it's my biggest foray in first-person perspective, and she's a ton load of fun to write for. The way she thinks (and I write for her) is short and crisp, and she is all about keeping the advantage. She's smart and observant and always keeping some secret, so what she thinks and what she actually says are a fun constrast; I especially like when what she says and what she's thinking are the same, but still mean different things.

That, and she's a little badass. She (fuck it, you know what, until I think of something better, her name is Rachel THERE) built her little empire from the ground up, starting as a cleaner for another Don. She built up her contacts, progressing upwards through different ranks, until she split off and started her own. She completely business about it, refers to the job in professional terms and even keeps track of records in business terms (which, admittedly, makes it easy to keep records without much fear of incriminating ones self, as everything looks like legitmate accounting ledgers). And she follows through with her decisions, even if she doesn't like it (if you've read the ending chapter, you know what I'm talking about).

Now for least favorite... um... probably Haitel from Tigress. He's the young ruler of a large kingdom (or was it an empire?...) who was spoiled from the day he was born. He has little concept of the outside world, and even though he shouldn't, makes big decisions that affect his subjects more than they'll ever affect him. The boy is just a total brat, and he's a pain to write for. He needs to be a threat on some level, because he's the antagonist, but writing a normal human boy who has no special powers (beyond being ruler) and isn't psychotic (just spoiled) into something isn't easy (or fun). The kid's just a little douche.
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Okay, maybe not, but still, it's not like I wasn't trying. I was! Very hard, mind you. Very.

Originally, I was trying to write something every Mon-Wed-Fri, in an attempt to keep a regular schedule and make sure something was produced on a weekly basis. I kept that up for a total of a whole, ooh, two and half weeks. Go me.

So I'm gonna try again. Something on the aforementioned three days, as well anything extra I feel like adding. Because I think part of my problem last time was I'd get ideas for posts on my off days, and instead of, you know, writing them down and saving them for later, I'd avoid it because I was off the clock. And then I'd forget about it and then it's ten at night and I'm trying to come up with something and it's not working so I put it off and convince myself I'll just skip that day and pick it back up the next "on" day. And we all saw how well that worked.

And now for update time, should anyone really give two shits; my noir story, which has no name, is slllloooowwly coming along. A small outline has been produced, which amounts to littl more than "First chapter done, last chapter done, basic concept approved, and a few scenes planned out (in my head)". Did help a convince a friend to go ahead with a story/chapter idea she already had, just was on the fence about going forward. Was compared to Spider Jerusalem, so that's always a plus. Did complete an outline draft for a script a director friend asked for; the downside to that is that I wanted to give him more than a bare bones edition, but due to computer screw ups I couldn't and now must attempt to remember everything I wrote before and recreate it. Fun.

Speaking of recreating everything I just lost, earlier today I was writing out a little bit in a AS thread. It was pretty involved, and had me deep in a character that was kinda fun to riff with, and then for SOME GOD DAMNED SHIT ASS FUCK reason, Explorer decided it was gonna flip me the bird and go bye-bye. So three to four paragraphs, which I had spent close to an hour working on because it was that much fun, phffst, gone. Away it went. FUCK. I got back on and remembered the jist of the first paragraph, but it wasn't as tight as the first one, and I didn't even try with the rest of it. I wrote it down so I wouldn't have to remember it, and it was spur of the moment so it wasn't like I had gone over it again and again in my head til it was right. Am I bitter you ask? NO. My rage is simply very, very focused and weaponized. For justice. Also anger.
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Well, it had to happen. The noir story, which it really doesn't seem to be much else, has taken root and is growing steadily.

I'm okay with that, I had just rather have gotten going on Little Red Riding Wolf, but can't complain too much because not much has been flowing from that spigot so it's time to try a different tap.

Right now I have a few problems with it. Nothing personal, just story elements that aren't...existent. A title would help, but that's hardly a major issue. I have a view down, as well as the narrator. My brain keeps flip-flopping between telling a good story "normally" or diving into the pulp noir setting I seem to have put myself in. Not that the noir isn't good, but the writing tends to have different characteristics. Then a different part of my conscious slaps the other part and says just write the damn thing and don't get hung up on labels. My brain has turned into high-school cliques, with logic turning into the guidance councilor, wonderful.

I have no names yet. Not for anyone major, I seem willing to throw out titles to the muscle. Martin seems to have jumped from minor to supporting role. But my lead has no name, and like most what I try to come up with doesn't seem to fit. I tried one, and it sounds alright, nothing I'm sold on, but I don't want to be called out on possible self-insert possibilities because it sounds too close to my actual name. The main guy...eh, what do you name a city detective without turning into a true "pulp" name. Everything else I hope will just sound right when it comes.

The actual meat of the story is what seems to be dragging it's heels. The main part is a love story, I think, because I have it in my head to have this mob boss try to keep her two lives separate as so to enjoy the second one with the guy for as long as she can. Granted, we know how that all turns out in the end, but still, it's the journey and not the destination. But I don't want it to be all romance, I want something she needs to fight against to make things hard(er) to hide.

Maybe the fallout from the opening, where whatever it was that guy (see how names would be helpful?) did that made him less than a memory still needs some polish to smooth things over with rival groups. Maybe; might work, needs some more "oomph" behind it.

One thing that keeps popping up whenever I think about dialogue with this story, I keep wanting to have her say one thing, but then have her think either something different or more detailed than what she actually knows. It's funny the first couple of times, but I know it could get really annoying pretty quickly.

Hopefully something will slip into place; maybe if I get lucky, I can blackout and wake up with everything already written for me...or at least have a draft outline waiting.

*Side-Note: Seriously, the spell-check can spell "oomph" correctly but doesn't know what "noir" is? The hell?*
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Not so a while back, I posted a short story from the first-person view of...somebody. This somebody did... something to a certain... um, someone, and all was very spooky and dark and got my ego warmed quite a bit after I posted it on [livejournal.com profile] a_soc_k.

Also, because of that posting more ideas came to me through others. Ideas I probably would have liked not to have, because I can distract myself with countless little nagging ideas all by myself, thank you very much.

But no, a few took root. The nameless, faceless protagonist now has a face, gender, and almost a name (I can personally aim my hate towards [livejournal.com profile] seraphania for her gender ;p), as well as some background.

I cannot produce in words how much I wasn't planning on continuing this. I was shocked to have the original as well received as it was, and had hoped to ride on it's coattails for a short time, while letting it stand on it's own for it's own merits. These are things I am no longer allowed. Because I have ideas. And these are ideas that are sharp beaked and clawed and peck at me like I'm tasty. I am not. And so to appease these non-existent peckers, if that first part was the opening chapter, I give unto you the ending of whatever story it may have told.

***

We just stared at each other for what seemed like too long.

He said it.

I couldn't believe it had actually came out of his mouth, but this stupid, intelligent, thoughtful, stupid, sexy bastard had actually said what I just thought he said. He just sat there, shirtless, with my silken red bedsheet the only thing hiding all of him from the world, staring at me and waiting for an answer. I couldn't believe it. And of course he had to say it when I was in little more than a thong and bathrobe. Damn it.

I was lucky and got to my gun before he did.

"Don't even. Leave it."

He stopped moving. "It's true then." He didn't need to say anything, but he was probably in some form of shock. "You run the Rebekah Corporation."

"Not so much run as built," I said. "Named after my grandmother." My pistol was leveled at him, and his hand was already away from his holster. He wasn't going anywhere. "The fact that you found out is a testament to your skill. You really are a damn good detective." I motioned to the chair by the desk, and he slowly moved to it, keeping his hands up. I knew he wouldn't try anything. He was too sweet to.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are we- why is this happening?" He looked around, his hands still raised. God, he was cute when he was confused.

I gestured to put his hands down, and wondered if I should even say anything. Grandpa's videos always had the mobster in this position who started monologuing be the one who died first. Expect for Scarface; different kind of climax though, not really what we had set up here. His face, however, was clearly hurt and confused; he really didn't know until right then. Jesus, I couldn't keep him like that.

"We," damn it, my voice cracked, "We are here...because you walked into my bar one day and were a gentleman. You never asked about my work, and accepted the lies I gave you. You cooked me dinner and left without wanting more. You- we are here, because I love you, and you had to go and just fuck this all up sideways."

His eyes didn't glance around; he wasn't looking for an out, not some way he could turn the tables on me. He couldn't reach me from the chair, and there was too much distance between us cover that fast. He wasn't hiding anything on himself; obviously. The only thing within reach that he could even try anything with was my letter opener, and that was about worthless; he'd given it to me after all, he knew it was cheap and stupid and kitschy and that's exactly why he had got it for me.

I was proud of myself for keeping an indifferent face on while we talked. It was all show, he knew me too well to think I was that detached. I was working things out; looking at the odds and variables, seeing how things would turn out, and trying not be distracted by how much my body still wanted him. He might've been doing the same. But your options are more limited when you have a nine mil staring at you from near point-blank.

"You don't have to do this." Please don't. "You just said you loved me. Which is amazing, because- well, it's not the phrase I would have expected in this situation."

"And what did you expect, Detective? What scenario did you envision when you pictured me holding your life in my hands?" I didn't want the sad smile be seen, didn't want this to be any harder but allowed him the charity of showing emotion. "Please, tell me."

He gave a short little laugh, that same one he gave when he was embarrassed but still thought it was funny. "Can't say I really pictured this exactly, but... you... you don't have to do this. Really. Neither of us does."

I laughed myself, too shrill for my ears but it was getting harder to hide. The gun never waived, though. "And what you would have me do, oh white knight? Give up my life? The people, the deals, the money, the lies, the fear, the whole scha-bang and all for what? For a man, a handsome man, mind you, the man I love, the man I had actually dreamed about leaving with forever like I was in high-school, to ride off into some sunset? Is that how you pictured this? With me doing some little turn on my heels," amazing how you can spin around and never have the barrel go off target, "face the world a new woman, where we live together on some beach and forget we ever lived this life?"

"...it does sound nice when you say it like that."

I laughed again; it was getting harder to hide the sadness in it. "It does, doesn't it. It really does." We let the silence deafen us, allowed everything we knew to just fill the room. He didn't know everything, but he knew enough to guess at the rest. I did know everything, which didn't help the least bit. It was almost over. I knew it, he maybe suspected, and we both just wanted to know who would cave first.

"It doesn't have to end this way." Damn. "I don't have to tell anyone. Hell, you have cops already on your payroll, you can always blackmail me into not saying anything. Hey, I think I'd make a pretty good patsy."

"Liar," and even he chuckled when I called him on it. "You're too much of a straight arrow to ever let something like personal feelings stop you from doing what's right. You'd do what you know you had to, even if you knew it'd hurt you too. That why you do what you do. It's why you're as liked as you are. You're a good man. Good for me."

Another unbearable silence.

"You don't have to do this." I considered his words, felt them out. He was a horrible liar, which is what made the truth from him that much more hurtful. Because you knew he was right. And he wouldn't have said otherwise.

"I know.

But we both know that isn't how this story ends."

He was gone before the chair even fell backward. Two in the chest, same as I'd always practiced. I walked up to his body, looking down at what was gone. I didn't follow up with one in the head; this wasn't an execution. This wasn't even murder. This was a loss.

The tears threatened to come hard and fast. I squeezed my eyes tight, refusing to let any tears go; there was business to handle first, I could cry like a baby later in the shower. My nails dug into my palm, felt the skin break, but it did the trick and I gasped out at the pain. No tears. Not now.

Martin and Jessie broke down the door in their rush to my aid, bless those guys, fifteen seconds late. Forty-fives, with silencers, stared at me from my now broken entry. Like that could intimidate me right now.

"It's alright guys," I said, setting my own pistol down. "It's all done."

"Boss?" Martin started to ask, lowering his gun, before Jess nodded past me to the floor. He moved quickly over the body, gun drawn like he thought zombies were real, or about to be. Martin cleared the bathroom, returning with the small first-aid kit, taking my hand as I supported myself on the dresser.

"What now, ma'am?" Bless Jessie and his focus on the details. Let him take care of the little things.

"Call Donaldson, get a report going. A city detective was found shot tonight, on the way home from his girlfriends'. Mugging gone bad. Something, just make it believable, he wasn't stupid in life. Keep things in house, I don't want this handed down to some rookie who's not under us. And wake Kellser up, we need a cleaner in here." I looked back over to him, the red puddle growing bigger. "Find out how to get a hold of his parents, they're up in Chesterfield somewhere. Make sure we take care of all funeral arrangements. They aren't paying for anything."

Jessie nodded, and was on his cell halfway through the list. Martin let my newly wrapped hand go, just staring at me; he'd been around longer than Jess, he could read me better. "Anything else we can do?"

I looked around, finally remembering to pull my robe closed. Still reasonably clean, to tell the truth. Nothing broken, nothing overturned; hell, it could've fooled me that nothing had just happened. The window wasn't broken; two inches higher would've changed that, need to remember to get that fixed. The bed was still messy; we never had gotten to that shower. The bedsheet trailed from the mattress to the downed chair, just now beginning to soak up blood. His picture smiled at me from my desk just a foot over, taken just a week ago.

"Find me a new roof. I don't feel like living under this one anymore."

***

There's a lot I want to change. Things to fix, little bits that don't flow right for me. But that's for later. I think I want a hug now.
ravenswept: (Default)
Here's a strange equation for you; past midnight, plus TV Tropes, multiplied by stroke of creativeness, equals what follows below. And all I can keep asking myself is, "What the hell is this?" Because really, when I got hit with the idea, this is all I got. Nothing more. What'd he do? I don't know. Who's the boss guy? I don't know. Are they even going to kill him? I don't know.

For what it's worth, I think it was when I was going through "Even Evil Has Standards" when I got this.

***

"Shut the door."

I hear the link of the metal catching, followed by extra clinks of two bolt locks. What we're about to do doesn't need visitors.

He sat in the middle of the room, bound at the wrists and ankles, with a blindfold and gag for good measure. I would tell you his name, but that won't matter soon anymore. I'd tell you what he did to wind up like this, but part of him being here is erasing that memory. I had crews going around and making sure his name wouldn't touch anyone's lips again.

I had worked years for the power of not having to pull a chair up myself, or having to pull out my own cigar and light it. I sat down, right in front of him, while the guys took a step back. Looking him over, he'd wet himself some time ago. Some drool was sliding around the gag and down his chin, which simply blended into the sweat and tears he was pouring out. He had every right to be this scared.

I took a small puff from the cigar, not saying anything. He knew I was there, he'd heard me come in. This was one of only two things I was going to enjoy about this; making this little fucker sweat 'til his balls drowned, and this cigar. Because it was nasty work we were about to put in for, and none of it was meant to be enjoyed.

I waited another ten minutes, enjoying most of the cigar that wasn't Cuban, but excellent none the less, before nodding to right. Douglas stepped up and removed the blindfold. He must've been down here longer than I thought, because it took him minute of blinking his eyes before he realized I sat in front of him. When he did he just about knocked himself to the floor trying to back away. I said nothing, didn't even move, while he had his little panic episode. Finally he got to the point where he was breathing raggedly though the cloth in his mouth and just staring at me with wide, red eyes.

"You know why you're here." And he did. His head jerked up at the acknowledgment, and he immediately started to ramble something but the gag stopped him from making any sense. The only thing I could make sense of was when he started sobbing. "Shut up." Another puff. "First, I'll put your mind at ease; your family will not be hurt. Not your wife, not your daughter, not even your mother-in-law who you have never shut up about. They will not be harmed in any way. If anything, they are safer now. None of them will even have to move from the city. Does this please you?" He actually takes a moment to think about it, then nods like he's okay with it. "Good. Mind you," and I let my voice grow harder, "they will never speak your name again. They will never think about you again. If they are lucky, they will be able to forget you entirely and never have your conscious cross theirs ever again. You will be less than deja vu to them, because they won't even remember if they forgot about you." Another slow puff, and his pant stain grows a little bigger. He starts crying again.

"You should know that what is about to happen, I take no pleasure in." Some from behind me took my jacket, and the chair went with them. Martin wheeled up the dentist's chair. "I loathe when this actually becomes necessary, and I detest when I need to become involved. But you, and your actions, have made this inevitable. And that is just one more reason I don't like you." Martin and three others moved in quickly, each grabbing a limb. He struggled as soon as any part of him was untied, and it was like watching linebackers wrestle with some methhead cranked up on PCP. Almost got free too, I'll give him that, though I doubt Charlie appreciated the kick to the stomach. I simply stood and watched, dropped the remains of the cigar to the floor and rubbing it out, waiting for them to finish.

Martin finally got a hold of the situation and clamped his hand around his neck. He still had fight in him, even as his face went red and his eyes started bulge a bit, at least until his arms went limp. Quickly they got him from one chair to the other, and used plastic ties to secure him to the reclined – rather plush, actually – dentist seat. His breathing was ragged and his eyes half-lidded as his head flopped to the side to stare at me. If he was trying to beg to me with his eyes, I wasn't seeing it. Maybe I didn't want to, but then again I wasn't in the mood to look.

Somebody wheeled up a cart as I stepped up beside him. "This was your doing. Remember that, as they do their work. I made the rules quite clear and was up front about penalties. When you choose to ignore these rules, you put not only myself, but your family, your friends, every person in this room and outside's lives in danger. All because you are a little man with a big ego. And you always have been. And so here you are."

I stood up and looked across the room. His name remains unsaid, but for different reasons than that the scum in the chair. No one knew his name, but everyone knew how to find him. The surgical gloves weren't necessary, but they added to the illusion and I think that's what he enjoyed about it. He nodded, and moved closer under the light.

Douglas brought me my jacket, and had the door opened before I was even there. I slipped on my coat and looked down; fear was the only thing left in his eyes. “As I said, this is not something I do for enjoyment. This is not revenge. This is not personal. You broke the rules, my rules, and now simply reaping the rotten fruits.” I kneeled closer so he had to look me in the eye. “This is not personal. Simply punishment.”

I stood and turned, precise steps taking me out of the room. The other man stepped forward to the light.

“Remove the gag, please.”

If he screamed anything as I left it was drowned out by the loud tone of the metal door closing. The only following sounds where the scrap of the deadbolts being put back in place.

Then silence. Not even a whisper from behind the door.

I hate this job.

***

Lord, just simply copy/pasting makes me want to go back and rewrite it all over again.

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