let's get the seven lines. (bookshop) wrote,
let's get the seven lines.

innumerable crappy WIPs

a half-assed attempt to save this ludicrous prompt from itself: http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/11005.html?thread=22159613#t22159613


"Married," Arthur repeats blankly.

"Yes," says the fortune teller, still with her eyes shut. "By the time you are 25."

Arthur very carefully does not look at Eames, but he can feel him shaking next to Arthur, trying to repress his laughter.

"Or else we'll have to marry each other."

"Or else you will marry each other," the fortune teller clarifies. "No have to."

Arthur says, "Um, thank you," and starts to leave the tent. In terms of hiding from hostile projections, using a carnival troupe as camouflage had been one of their more ridiculous ideas already. Now he just feels like a chump.

Eames reaches out, grabs his arm, and Arthur stops automatically, hating the way he reacts to something so simple.

"No, wait, Arthur, I think we should stay a bit longer. Maybe find out what will happen if we don't get married."

Arthur settles for clearing his throat and peering past the tent flap into the street. "They're on their way," he says.

"It will not be something you can help," the fortune teller says unhelpfully. She sounds gleeful. Arthur decides he hates their Mark's subconscious for conjuring up snarky projections. Really, he'd rather she just tried to shoot him.

"You wanna be the one to tell her we're both over thirty?" he mutters.

"Darling, trivialities never stopped true love," Eames replies. Underneath the levity in his voice is a note that causes Arthur to glance over at him sharply, but Eames is already darting outside, stumbling out into the open and running toward the fun house. The projections pursue him immediately, and Arthur curses under his breath when it hits him that he's left Arthur the perfect opening to duck back down the midway towards the rendezvous point for the mark.

He fires a few wayward shots into the air overhead. The projections who haven't disappeared into the funhouse immediately turn back. It's not much, but hopefully it will give Eames a chance at not being mauled alive.

"You know," says the fortune teller behind him, and it's not a question. "You already know what I'm saying is the truth."

"Right," says Arthur. "Thanks for the reading."

He ducks under the tent flap and runs for his life.


Cobb is still squinting at them several hours later, long after they've finished the job by the skin of their teeth and are safely ensconced back at the hotel nursing their wounds.

"Tell me again," says Cobb. "You tried to lose them a hall of mirrors?"

Eames shudders and stretches out flat on one of the beds in the suite registered to Mr. Charles. "It was a close thing," he says, his voice gone all growly with the satisfaction of an adventure well-had. "I almost had them fooled. Nearly concaved and convexed them to distraction." Arthur smirks at that, just a little, and Eames adds, with a glance over at him, "But then they went after Arthur, instead. Tried my best, but it's almost like he lured them away."

"After you lured them away from Arthur," says Cobb. His voice is way too flat. It makes Arthur shoot him a look that he's pretty sure Cobb deliberately avoids returning.

"Arthur was otherwise occupied getting his fortune read," Eames responds lightly. He's got his hands tucked up under his head now; the corner of his plaid shirt has come untucked and is rucking up around his belt. Arthur tries not to notice the stretch of bare muscle beneath. He fails.

"Huh," says Cobb. He looks at Arthur at last, and Arthur can feel the scowl on his face. He knows he's right when Cobb grins, because Cobb, goddammit, has always enjoyed seeing Arthur uncomfortable. "Well? She tell you whether you're going to live in a mansion or a shack?"

"Neither," Eames answers before Arthur can say a word. "She told him he's already found the love of his life."

"Huh," says Cobb again. Then he doesn't say anything. Arthur could kill them both. He stands up. "I've gotta make a phone call," he says. Eames cocks his head in Arthur's direction and smirks like he knows Arthur is lying. Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from doing something childish like clenching them into fists. "I'll be at the bar," he adds, even though Eames will probably come along and drive him crazy, or else Cobb will come along and be maudlin, and thank God the job's over with and they're splitting up for a while.

(and then they have sex.)

(the first scene of a band AU i will never finish. )

They never tell people that they all met in a coffeehouse. (Or, if they do, they always emphasize the part where they meet sabotaging the hipster sing-in, not the fact that they're all technically in the coffeeshop to begin with).

Sometimes they tell people they actually met up auditioning for another band, which isn't a lie: that band, nameless at the time and now nameless forevermore, had held tryouts in a warehouse around the corner. Arthur convinced Robert to come even though there'd been nothing about needing a keyboardist on the flyer; Arthur said, "Just let them hear you and they'll make room."

(In fact, before Robert even played, the bassist eyerolled and made jokes about Keane, and the drummer smirked and said, "Yeah, let's just add a fucking tambourine while we're at it." Arthur spared them his witty rejoinder only because he didn't want to get blood on his suit. Instead he turned around and walked out without a word. Robert followed, apologizing for ruining his audition, and Arthur, on the verge of snapping at him for thinking so little of his own talent, forced a smile and and ducked into the coffeeshop on the corner of 4th St for some cool air and a breather.)

The tryout went pretty well for Ariadne and Eames, but the band's sound was too grunge for Ariadne and too emo for Eames, so they parted with lukewarm maybes all around. Which is why
Ariadne dragged him into the coffeehouse on 4th, so they could relax and have a rant about undereducated little boys who think they know all there is to know about music just because they've learned to play "Freebird."

Arthur didn't notice them, of course. He was too busy trying to keep Robert from apologizing for ruining his audition. "Look," he said, "you shouldn't apologize. They were dicks."

Robert's mouth slanted and he said, in that unhappy soft way of his, "Yeah, but they had a point about rock bands with keyboards. Nobody wants to be Coldplay. Keyboardists pretty much have to be solo artists. It's too easy to stereotype the band."

"Not true." Arthur frowned at his latte instead of at Robert, because Robert was a sensitive soul. "Queen? Foreigner? The Dresden Dolls? Dire Straits?"

"Ooh," said Robert. He looked torn.

Arthur flashed him a grin. "See? We just need to find our Mark Knopfler and we're golden."

"I thought you were going to write the songs."

"Still need a lead guitarist."

"How about them?"

Arthur looked around. In the center of the room, a bunch of hipsters, one with a Joan Baez guitar, were arranging themselves in a circle.

"Not them." Robert nodded toward the back of the room. "I think they were at the same tryout we were," he said. "Look, he's got his amp."

Arthur followed his nod and saw a guy and a girl sandwiched in a corner beneath a film festival flyer. He could make out the shape of the guy's guitar case and the amp sitting beside his feet, but not much more, because a decent crowd was forming around the sing-in. Joan Baez spread out her hippy skirt and started to sing, in a sweet, reedy voice, about fucking the government.

The girl in the back rolled her eyes. The guy just looked on with a grin. Arthur tried hard not to pull a face in public, but wound up looking down and smirking at his latte instead.

When she finished, Robert clapped enthusiastically. Arthur laughed a little. He couldn't help it.

"You gonna say anything?" Robert asked. "To the guy back there. Might be worth it."

Arthur looked back at the two of them. He shrugged. "I mean, I don't really like going up to people I don't know," he said. "Maybe their audition went better than ours."

"No, I don't think so," Robert said. "The girl's ticked. She's been ranting for like fifteen minutes."

Arthur gave him a look. Robert went pink at the ears and sipped his coffee. Arthur smirked. "She is gorgeous," he said.

"Definitely gorgeous," said Robert. Then he added, slyly, "They both are."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn't need to look back to catalogue it. Even wearing the world's ugliest Smiths shirt, he was pretty much the hottest guy Arthur had ever seen this far South of Soho.

"Oh," said Robert. "He's on the move, look."

The guitarist was taking out his guitar--Arthur caught a flash of tattoo under his jacket as he bent down, then caught a flash of sunburst on a--Jesus, was that a Jimmy Page? Jesus. He forced himself to look away before he could get caught staring.

The guitarist got up and moved to the edge of the crowd huddled around Joan Baez, and somehow worked his way into the spot right next to her in the middle of her (jaunty) song about tired days and worn out ways.

"Ha," Robert said. "He's totally fucking with the hipsters."

Sure enough, when the song was over, he clapped just like everyone else, then swung his arm around Joan Baez and said with a jovial grin around the room, "What's say we bring it down a notch or two, mates?" (He was British, smooth-talking and Bond-ish, on top of everything else. Of course.)

Arthur expected the guy to launch straight into Anarchy in the UK. He just seemed the type.

Instead, he strummed a tonic, almost gently, then launched into a dominant scale, and Arthur did an aural double take as he recognized the unmistakable opening of "Waterloo Sunset."

Joan Baez did not join in. So, four bars in, Arthur did.

He heard himself strumming the background before he even realized he had taken his guitar out of his case. But seriously, how could he not. The guitarist looked for the source of the sound and flashed him a delighted grin when he found it, and Arthur felt his face going red and allowed himself to smile back, just a little. It was one of those songs that Arthur didn't find annoying to play, even when it regressed from the dom to the sub, because the result was just that gorgeous, all those suspensions wrapping around each other like that.

The guitarist was mouthing the words softly, dark hair falling into his eyes, and Arthur sort of liked that he didn't seem to care whether anyone else was singing along or not. Just before the ii chord, he heard Robert start to sing along, softly, "And I don't feel afraid..." and the girl who'd been sitting beside the guitarist started to sing the background vocals, and took out her drumsticks. Something about the moment she started to play them on the table sent a shiver straight through Arthur's chest, and he could feel the frisson in the air.

By the time a few of the other people in the coffehouse had picked it up and started singing along, he could tell everyone else felt it too. Robert had raised his voice so people other than Arthur could actually hear him, and his barely-there Oz accent made him sound even better. Arthur had always tried to tell him he had a great voice, but it seemed like this moment, with everyone turning around to listen, craning to get a look at the singer, was the first time Robert had ever actually believed it. He looked happy. It was good. Arthur let himself smile a little bigger.

When he looked over again, the guitarist was watching him--trying to catch his attention, maybe, or maybe just watching him the way Arthur had been trying not to watch the guitarist. Repeat? he mouthed, and Arthur nodded and allowed himself the opportunity to really look as the two of them sunk into the bridge again. He had sharp, warm eyes, and his smile was curling the hairs on Arthur's arm. He could seriously, seriously play. Arthur wondered if his fingers were calloused. He wondered how many more tattoos he was hiding under that hideous shirt. He wondered when would be a good time to try to find out--and then the guy's eyes narrowed as he looked up at Arthur, and Arthur realized he'd been caught after all. At least he could blame it on guitar envy, he thought, and looked down at his own guitar (a Copley he wouldn't trade for anything) and focused on playing through the end, riding the dominant right into the wave of applause. And whistles. And... more applause. Wow.

Arthur looked at Robert, who was ducking his head and blushing instead of acknowledging the very obvious smile of the girl behind the counter. The girl in the back corner was drum rolling against the wall with her sticks. The guy in the center of the room sat kicked back in his seat, taking it all in and stroking the neck of his guitar like it was a pet.

Then he smiled over at Arthur. Arthur nodded back. Then he swallowed. His throat was very dry.

"Are you guys like a real band?" asked one of the hipsters.

The guitarist laughed, a delighted, Britishy sort of laugh. Arthur thought he looked entirely too smug, then remembered the guitar and acknowledged there was no such thing as too smug when you somehow owned a Jimmy Page Signature Les Paul.

"Are we a real band," echoed the guitarist.

Then he looked up, straight at Arthur, and said: "What are we called again, darling?"

Arthur's heart stuttered to a halt in his chest.

The smoking hot British guitarist with the gorgeous eyes and the fuckable mouth and the horrible dress sense and the sexy guitar was looking right at him, waiting.

Then he said, "Inception. We're called Inception."

(Not that he'd been thinking about it, or anything.)

Beside him, Robert let out a breath.

"There you are," said the guitarist with a wave of his hand. "Inception. That's us, then."

Then he stood up, winked at Joan Baez, and said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go meet my bandmates."

the eames-is-miserable-and-so-am-i fic, how is this my life:

Eames is in New Orleans when he realizes. It's 2003, and he's thinking about the time Arthur took out an entire squadron of militarized projections with a fusebomb that Eames imagined right into his hands. It was three months ago but he can't stop telling the story, the way he'd had to shape the bomb, the fuse, and the lighter into being while Arthur hissed curse words at him under his breath. The rush and the explosion had both been brilliant.

It hits him while he's telling the story (there are more projections this time around; Arthur has a single-shot pistol with only one bullet left by the time Eames finally lights it) that half of the rush and half the explosion was the way Arthur looked at him the moment they managed to blow the place to ashes around them. Kind of like he couldn't believe they actually got through it. Kind of like he wondered why he ever worried to begin with.

Eames is so surprised that he stops in mid-sentence.

"Well?" Nash says, obviously bored.

Eames grins, says, "You know, you've probably heard it all before anyway," and changes the subject.


Arthur flies to Prague to see him about the Milano job. He doesn't shake Eames' hand. He doesn't smile. It's navy pinstripes today, his hair slicked back and stiff just like the rest of him. When he sits down his shoulders stay tensed, his posture rigid. Eames stretches even further in his chair, trying to relax enough for the both of them. It won't work, he knows, but he can't help nudging Arthur's ankle with his toe. Just as a reminder.

Arthur's lips tighten and he looks away.

It's like butterflies. It's like being fifteen.


During the Barinetti extraction Arthur's tie is gone. The top three buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned. Everything else is in place, the jacket, the pressed linen trousers. When he tries to change into the mark's girlfriend, her favorite blouse is open at the collar, and it takes him three tries to forge the buttons into existence.

Arthur is immobile, focused on getting back to the rendezvous point for the kick, but he glances over at Eames once. The pulse point at his temple throbs.

Eames doesn't trust himself to kiss the mark, but he does anyway, all tongue, just like his girlfriend likes it. The mark puts his hand at the small of Eames' back and kisses back, and this one really means it. Eames almost breaks character.

After the job, Eames temporarily moves into the bar on the corner next to his Paris apartment. Arthur finds him there after three days.

Arthur sits down across from where Eames is working on his second bottle of wine, because Eames isn't picky when it comes to alcohol, and he likes a good sherry, full stop. It's a full suit for him today, brown and gorgeous. He meets Eames' eyes in side-swipes that Eames does his best to ignore.

"Hey," he says. "I wanted to say."

He stops and fidgets. "You wanted?" Eames prods. Eames has never shown Arthur his totem and he isn't about to start now.

Arthur sighs and puts his hands on the table in front of him. His palms are flat against the wood and they're not even shaking. Eames laughs. Arthur looks up sharply, like something startled out of the underbrush.

"I wanted to say it's okay," he says.

Eames pulls his legs off the chair he's been reclining on and sits all the way forward.

"I mean, I'm not--" says Arthur. "I know it's out there," he says. "I just wanted to--I'm thinking about it."

Eames laughs again, because he's too shocked to do anything else. "That doesn't make it okay, darling," he says.

Arthur frowns. "Yeah," he says. "I wanted you to know."

"Should I be thanking you?" Eames asks.

Arthur's face goes blank for a moment, as if Eames has shocked the expression right off of it.

"No," he says. "Sorry."

Eames shakes his head and reaches across the table. Arthur's hand is cool when he takes it. It doesn't tremble even once.


Ariadne meets Eames and immediately dismisses him as an easy puzzle. It would be annoying, but she's right and he can't fault her for it. She likes people in the abstract, and he suspects there's not much to him when you aren't looking at the messy details. She targets Cobb like a homing device, but she circles warily around Arthur as if she's not sure how close she wants to get. She's much, much smarter than Eames.

He takes her out one day and is pleased to learn she drinks like a pro. He thought she would. She has a glass of wine, then joins him in lining up glasses of Glenmorangie and tossing them back one by one. He tries his best to keep up, because damned if he's getting stuck paying for the final round.

"You're going about it wrong if you want to get to Arthur," he says on the third go-round. "He and Cobb, they're like opposite ends of the same maze. Go in deep enough, it all leads to the same place."

"You mean back to Mal?" she says. Her eyes are bright. He's teetering on the edge of sharp-eyed clarity; he can't tell if it's the alcohol or if she's just that intense all the time and he never noticed.

"No, back to the dream," he says.

"I mean," she says, turning her glass and watching the light refract, "how well do you really know either of them?"

"Inside the dream or out? There's a difference."

She blinks at him slowly. Eames takes pity on her.

He says: "You'll learn soon enough which side is worse."


In 2007 he fucked a mark. It was the only time and he'll never do it again, but at the time it seemed like the only way in, and the boy was desperate to believe he could trust Eames. He'd had dark, miserable eyes, and his cheeks flushed red when Eames took them between his hands.

It had been so easy to do it at the time. The boy had tangled his hand in Eames' hair, and that shouldn't have made a difference, but it did. The more Eames whispered things against his skin, the more he relaxed. When he was fucked-out and pliant he gave up his secrets without a protest, then curled up against Eames like a withered leaf.

Eames was supposed to leave him and go straight to Cobb with the information. Instead he stayed until the music started, scratching the mark's back while he breathed in and out, in and out.

Then he wrote a note of apology, tucked it beside the boy's pillow, and stuck a gun barrel down his throat.


Eames is sick of Edith Piaf. He's never been in a war, but he's heard the signal enough times, distorted and elusive and wafting through a haze of gunfire, that it might as well be an air raid siren. He doesn't like that it's a sound that can make his gut twist in relief.

He heard Arthur humming it once. "Do you really like it, or does it just get bury itself in your head?" Eames asked.

"Oh," said Arthur. "I don't really notice it anymore. It's just always there."

Eames always tries desperately to notice.


Mal called him on it once. Eames was standing in the doorway of their living room just after they moved from Paris to L.A. Arthur stood in the middle of the room holding Philippa, looking awkwardly down at her, trying to smile but clearly wishing someone who knew what to do with babies would take her away.

Babies and Eames got along well, but he was content watching Arthur squirm.

Mal brushed past him with a pat on his arm. When he turned his head, she looked up at him, a sad look, and said, "It can't be all that is inside of you. Or you'll drown."

Eames figures that's still really all there is to say.


Eames texts Arthur whenever he relocates. He never sends anything except the lat/long. 50.0878 14.4204. -4.05 39.6666. 44.13873 -124.1276. Arthur, naturally, never sends anything back. Except the once, when he sent: Mal's dead.

Three hours later, he sent: Eames?


Eames normally reaches for scotch before he reaches for his totem, but in Madero one night he stands in the surf for hours with the ocean fizzing around his feet, flipping the chip and telling himself he's not dreaming. It's six weeks after the Fischer job. He hasn't heard from Arthur and he needs to find more work soon, but instead he stands in the middle of the ocean and watches the chip land over and over again.

He calls L.A. around three am, sure that Arthur's awake wherever he is, equally sure he'll let it ring through to VM. When it does, he suffers a moment of deep regret that he went for the reality check instead of the scotch.

"Look," he says, "I'll do the next job with you, but only if you admit you're a gormless idiot for not just asking me in the first place."

Two days later Arthur says, "I'm not gormless," when Eames answers his phone, and Eames has to hold it away from him when he replies in case Arthur hears the grin in his voice.

The next job is Dubai. Yusuf meets him at the airport. Arthur and Ariadne meet him at the warehouse. Ariadne gives him a hug. Then she hugs Yusuf. Arthur casts something that's not quite a smile in their general direction. Eames considers it a victory.

It's a straightforward bait-and-switch, and after inception, it's too easy; but Arthur wears Zegna the whole time, and Eames is so happy to be back that his dreams sizzle with pleasure at the edges. Yusuf tries to find reasons to go down an extra layer, and Ariadne tries to find reasons to build the Parthenon, and Arthur lets Eames kick his chair, and it's fun.

Eames forges himself as the mark's fifty-six year-old mother. Arthur watches him when he does the change. "Think I'll pass?" says Eames to Arthur's reflection.

"You always do," says Arthur. It catches Eames off-guard. He has to forge the smile right off his face, but Arthur sees it anyway.

He looks--not happy, but satisfied, and Eames rests his hand on Arthur's elbow as he passes.

(this one is just a joke.)

The G Line Doesn't Even Run on Sundays, You Dumbass (And Please Don't Say It Was Ironic (And I Don't Even Know Where the Fucking G Line Goes Anyway (Nor Honestly Do I Give A Fuck)))


"Arthur," says Eames, coming to stand next to him.

Arthur looks up from the whiteboard. He's just finished a doodle of Calvin pissing on a PASIV Device. "Hmm?" he says.

Eames hesitates, looks at Arthur's handiwork. Then he shakes his head. "Nothing," he says.

Huh, Arthur thinks.


"Eames," says Arthur. "How did you even get this number?"

"I have my sources," says Eames, sounding too smug.

"Oh," says Arthur. "Okay."

There's a long pause. Then another one. Arthur turns a page in the latest issue of Shonen Jump.

"So," says Eames.

"So," says Arthur.


Arthur nearly bumps into Eames as he's coming out of the Gap. "Oh, hey, Eames," he says.

Eames looks up, then double-takes so hard he nearly drops his smart phone. "Arthur?" he says.

Arthur blinks at him, unsure why he's so surprised. "Hey," he says. "They've got a two-for-one sale on scarves."

"Oh," says Eames. "Oh, great, I'll check it out, thanks."

"No problem, man," says Arthur.


"Did you get the present I sent you?" Arthur asks as he tries to fish out a piece of bread stuck in the toaster.

"What present?" Eames asks.

"You know," Arthur says vaguely. "The thing--"


"Oh." The toast hits him in the eye and he curses. "Must have gotten lost in transit then."

"Yes," Eames says.

Arthur thinks he hears a toilet flushing in the background.


Arthur and Eames squint at the book. "Lors kay zha vay six ands shay view, oon fwah, oon magnifying image--" Arthur stops reading and glances over at Eames dubiously. "That mean anything to you?" he says.

Eames shrugs.

"Oh my god, you two," says Ariadne. It's The Little Prince!"

Arthur blinks. Eames shrugs again. Ariadne looks back and forth between them. "Classic children's lit? One of the greatest novels in the French language?"

"I don't speak French," says Arthur. "Do you speak French, Eames?"

"Just the one language for me, pet," says Eames. "Also, er, reading..." he makes a face.

Arthur pastes on a smile for Ariadne. "Sorry," he says, kind of pleased at her crestfallen, unimpressed face.


"So..." says Arthur.

"WHAT?" yells Eames over the sound of traffic in the background.

"So it turns out," says Arthur, "that I never actually got you the present--"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU," says Eames.

"--I was just thinking about getting you the present," says Arthur, "but I didn't actually buy--"

"HELLO?" asks Eames. "HELLO?"

The line goes dead.


"I think we've gotten to the point in our relationship," Eames says, "where we should try to get to know each other better."

"Really?" Arthur asks, not really listening as he downloads the latest chapter of Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

"How about you tell me the titles of five books on your bookshelf," Eames suggest.

"That is the dumbest idea I've ever heard you suggest, Eames."

"You know," Eames muses, "I thought that you being a prick was a turn-on. But now I just think you're kind of a prick."

"Sorry," Arthur says.

There is an awkward silence. "Er, I'll just hang up now," Eames says.

"Right," Arthur agrees, and hangs up.


Arthur and Eames squint at the book. "Lors kay zha vay six ands shay view, oon fwah, oon magnifying image--" Arthur stops reading and glances over at Eames dubiously. "That mean anything to you?" he says.

Eames shrugs.

"Oh my god, you two," says Ariadne. It's The Little Prince!"

Arthur blinks. Eames shrugs again. Ariadne looks back and forth between them. "Classic children's lit? One of the greatest novels in the French language?"

"I don't speak French," says Arthur. "Do you speak French, Eames?"

"Just the one language for me, pet," says Eames. "Also, er, reading..." he makes a face.

Arthur pastes on a smile for Ariadne. "Sorry," he says, kind of pleased at her crestfallen, unimpressed face.


"Arthur, why are you eating a chocolate croissant?"

Arthur pauses. "I was hungry?" he says with his mouth full.

"Just yesterday you were grumbling about how much you hated carbs," says Eames, looking betrayed.

"Oh," says Arthur. "I changed my mind."

"I just spent a week learning how to make gluten-free pudding so I could serve it on our date nights!"

"Well," says Arthur. "You know what happens when you assume."

"Sometimes I hate you," says Eames.

"Oh," says Arthur. "Sorry."

Three hours later, he calls Eames back.

"Hey, was I supposed to say something besides sorry?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?" says Eames.

"Uh," says Arthur. "Nothing. Nevermind," and then quickly hangs up again.


Eames turns over blearily and answers the phone. "Bloody hell," he growls, "why are you calling me at 2 in the morning?"

"Shit, sorry, I called the wrong 'last dialed' number," Arthur says. "I meant to call Domino's."

1. Domino's Pizza
Tags: fic, inception

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