1964-11-08 - Project Virgo: Hunted by Ghosts
Summary: What should be a routine transportation turns into a comedy of absolute errors, courtesy of the SHIELD Keystone Cops. Dull drives in Connecticut are a thing of the past.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
bucky clint wanda 


|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d6 for: 5

… 0100 hours. Connecticut. US 7 …

Just over the New York state line, US 7 generally follows the Housatonic River. Like so much of Connecticut, the rolling dormant farmland and sprawl of gentle hills populated by the occasional farmhouse, metal trailer, or dusty forest are utterly forgettable. Now and then signs appear in the headlights of a parade of vehicles to identify the next hole in the ground with a name. This far out, names don't even come accompanied by a population count. There's Kent, as there has been Kent announced for the past eight miles. Kent Falls State Park should not conjure the idea of thundering waterfalls and white water, so much as little red covered bridges. Pond Mountain Park has a hill covered in trees dying away from gold leaves.

None of these things are much visible in the dark. The only things worth noting about the two-lane road is the near lack of traffic and bystanders. Revolutionary ghosts might be prowling the countryside with Ichabod Crane. Whoever pulled this duty for a near two hour drive back to New York City is bound to regret it.

Three sedans move at fairly high speed, driven by tactical agents. Half of them came out of Danbury and linked up with the one brought out from the Big Apple containing a certain archer. Now that parade is headed for the rendezvous point: Pond Mountain Park. No one will question if there's another vehicle or three on the road headed south, containing one of the most wanted men in America and another of the same person, right?

This has an unpleasant sense of deja vu. Bucky's clearly been in a fight - there are bruises, a split lip, and a hell of a shiner on one eye. He's cuffed, hands behind him, and there's a stun-bracelet on his ankle - a little gadget with a fast-acting, high-dose sedative, the control remote held by another agent. He looks philosophical about it, though. Volya didn't get away. Bucky didn't kill him, or get killed himself. All the rest of it is paperwork….and supremely disappointed looks from Peggy.

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d100 for: 1

Volya the Hunter is currently shackled and guarded by two men in a Buick that needs a new life. The upholstery isn't comfortable. Neither are the seats. They sway together in the back seat, staring dead ahead into the dark. The one on the passenger's side has watch duty. Driver in the front keeps following the sinuous road at a speed no one likes. Their quarry sleeps in the trunk, because where /else/ do you transport a troublesome killer? They're listening to the radio, partly to make up for the dull crackle in another car. No one wants to know Bucky's discomfort.

The car ahead of them strobes another of those signs, highlighting the park's presence. Behind follows two drivers, including Agent Carolton who called this whole business in. Then Bucky's vehicle with angry Agent White. Taking up the rear is the wetworks squad on a hell of a budget, who more or less abandoned their forgettable office. Not far now, roughly a mile of swerving road as they close on the entrance. Possibly even less.

Another sign flashes on the side of the street and Clint groans and mocks it in a mundane tone, not unlike a train attendant, "Kent…" Stormy, but keen eyes flick over the darkness beyond the vehicle, lidded with either genuine or extremely well-feigned boredom. It's Clint, so it's hard to tell. The archer doesn't actually seem to be broken in any fashion today, having healed up from his last broken nose just fine, there's only a fading pink line on his jaw from the bar brawl, so in Clint World, that means he's in tip top shape. All for the best, really, considering.

He's not driving. Mostly because he threw paper and the other agent threw scissors, but also because the guy is, in Clint's opinion, useless except as a driver. But he got shotgun. Better to keep an eye out for trouble, really. Even in the dark and utterly mind-numbing road trips with cardboard people. He's alert, if bored, and trying not to shoot off a million annoying comments since the last question of 'Have you ever had to pay for sex?' in regards to the guy's unfortunate appearance earned him a /look/.

It's hard not to doze off. At least Buck's not in the trunk. Threats *were* made - Right now Agent White is very definitely not the president of the Bucky Barnes Fan Club…..and there's a long angry queue behind him of club members wishing to turn in their badges, metaphorically speaking.

Buck's got his cheek pressed to the chill of the window, presumably to soothe the bruises there, and he's got his eyes closed. The driver for their car, since White also has 'shoot the Russian bastard before he gets away' duty, gives his senior agent a look. "So, that's really the guy that was in the war with Cap?" Bucky takes it upon himself to answer, with a slurred, "Uh huh."

Absolutely no effort whatsoever is necessary for someone to notice something going awry. It all happens at once.

A deer springs across the road in a frantic dash. Those bounding movements draw to a halt. Headlights illuminate the fixed, dark eyes of liquid ink. The first of the southbound sedans veers around into the oncoming lane, proof someone failed their defensive driving class. Wild flashes might suggest overtaking if not for the drunken swerve. The driver swears. The music cuts out to the string of colourful language that would upset someone's Yiddish grandma.

The tail lights blast in a string of cherry red Christmas lights for cars two, three, and four. Carolton is busy craning his head to see what the hell caused the commotion and the other driver literally shouts, "Oh, deer!"

The world explodes seconds later. A fireball erupts out of the second with such force the shockwave travels down the road in both directions. Bushes on the soft shoulders rattle madly. Anyone asleep isn't going to be now. Glass rains down as the carapace of the burning vehicle heaves up into the air and smashes down in a marigold orange halo.

Clint has the pleasure of witnessing this at less than one mile away, and that it's perfectly dark makes the fireball even /more/ impressive.

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d10 for: 2

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 3

Even when there isn't some stupid counter-intelligence program trying to fuck with Clint's day, the very wildlife in the podunk middle of nowhere has to make things difficult. Clint perks up while he notices a train of headlights down the way, taking his elbow off of the window ledge and sitting up in his seat. "Thank fucking God. I was just about to start playing I-spy. And it's dark out. I spy with my little eye something /bllllack/." The archer turns his head to obnoxiously pull that word between his teeth directly /at/ the driver. "Gee. I wonder."

And of course that's when everything just goes fantastically wrong. One of the pairs of headlights veers out wildly, drawing Clint's attention out of the corner of his eye. Squinting, the agent leans forward and frowns. "What the…who stopped for Margarita Wednesday in Kent? Speed it up. C'mon, man." Impatiently twirling his finger in a circular motion at his companion, who gives him an annoyed look and snorts in response, barely increasing pressure on the gas pedal.


Clint's eyes go wide and he sits back in his seat. "Aw, fireball…no." The blond shoots another look at the man next to him. "You believe me now? Hit it!" The sour agent beside him is only a little pissed off to actually do what Clint says, speeding down the road toward the explosion. Clint smiles dryly and rolls his shoulders back, loosening up. "Thank god. I was just about to fall asleep. Going to have to send someone a Christmas card…"

The explosion….well, Bucky doesn't *quite* panic completely. But he's gone from weary, battered, and bruised to riding on an adrenaline high that would give cocaine a serious run for its money, all in about three heartbeats. He's shaken around like a die in a cup….and before the driver can even bring the car he's in to a halt, he's popped his restraints like they're woven out of daisy stems, hurled himself out the door, and is on his way to the heap of burning wreckage - presumably to see if anyone survived.

|ROLL| Clint +rolls 1d20 for: 5

Bucky's night will sink even lower when his car is summarily smashed into by the startled drivers behind him. That sends the vehicle careening out of the way and Agent White slammed forward, smashed into the driver's side bench seat. The driver has a worse time of it. Remember the curse of sixties vehicles? The steering column takes him straight through the chest. He is not a leaf on the wind.

Clint's driver nails the brakes less than a quarter mile off the twisting road, in part because of… something. Something that tears through tyres and slices the bumper apart, snapping and singing with an oddly metallic note. Their sedan hasn't got a hope as they go whipping across the road on a stench of hot rubber, and right for trees and wire-netted fence. His next stop is being flung through the passenger side door if he's got reflexes enough, though he does avoid a sudden stop at a tree trunk.

Bucky may be too overwrought by explosive tintinnabulation redounding through the primeval cup of his brain. Little bones rattle in wild oscillations. His mad run makes for a hell of a sight as he's already running. Two burning figures lie prostrate, and the passenger coming out from the first car hasn't got a chance. The Winter Soldier is probably watching himself dance through the infernal holocaust, revolving around and using a cracked door to slam into the staggered SHIELD agent.

In the mad chaos revolving around them, a shot explodes through Agent Carolton's eye and nails Agent White square in the chest. No one's ever pressing the ankle-bracelet stun device. On the contrary, they'll possibly bury him with that. The scent of petrol rises on the air.

Clint's attention is fixed more on the area of the explosion rather than what's happening around his own vehicle, so the sudden conflict happening with his car is entirely unexpected. Grabbing the arm rest with one white-knuckled hand and the dash with the other while the tires are shredded and they go entirely askew, whipping them back and forth like ragdolls, waiting for the ride to stop. The stop doesn't look the least bit friendly though, as in a flash of eratic headlights, that treeline looks pretty unforgiving. Gritting his teeth, Clint's got a sidearm, sure, but what good is an archer without his weapon of choice? An agile twist around, he snags the strap of his quiver tucked behind the driver's seat and bails. Peace! The asphault isn't much more forgiving than those trees, and dear god, Clint hopes there aren't any caltrops on the road as he schools his natural animal reaction to tense up and goes mostly limp and rolls across the ground.

"Ow-ow-ow-ow! Hot!" Clint hisses between his teeth as he tumbles, slowing enough to try to get his feet under him during one of the rotations, skidding and running a little haphazardly. Brand new roadrash in token spots. "Hot-hot-hot…" Keen eyes searching in the darkness for what the hell just attacked his vehicle when shots call out. Cover. Clint gets out of the pools of streaming headlights first and foremost.

On the perhaps foolish assumption that there's anyone alive to hear him, Bucky's bellowing, "Sniper!" at the top of his lungs. This day has gone from merely bad to 'radioactive dumpster fire' so quickly.

Which means that he's in no shape at all to sneak up on Volya. No sneaking, then. He's trying for a tackle - all the better to try and punch the other Soldier right out of a fire.

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 4

New road rash and definitely some new tears. How much did he like those pants? Clint will be investing in shorts since a tear makes for a lot of a mess. Some stains won't come out, like gore or molten rubber. Fresh burns to go with it. The car at least gives cover, important all things considered. Whoever is shooting is very accurate about their shots.

The third vehicle where a thoroughly dead Carolton slumps against shivers with flame, the gasoline in the tank clearly affected. A leak on the ground dumps more, and the flaming debris still floating down — leaves, bark, you name it — will ignite it sooner than later. Three agents in the last car take aim from behind the ajar door where they can, but the blast has a terrible effect on their aim. So terrible, in fact, two of them shoot the wrong person. One wings Clint. The other nails the last surviving driver rather than Volya. The shrapnel from a broken window hits Bucky, insult to fucking injury.

Volya is beautiful in action. Terrible, but beautiful. When the soldier collides with him, he spins and rolls, pulling them across the distance to the shadows. Maybe there's a punch to the face in there. Their path suits.

Right into the unblinking eye on high, the cruel, stubborn muzzle of a gun. Perfect shot. Remorse is a fleeting thing.

Clint has the calves for shorts, he just prefers pants. Not like it matters. That can all wait while Clint runs for cover, his path veering slightly as he's winged by that bit of friendly fire, grunting and careening into the metal beast of a car he was previously in, checking momentarily on the guy he was driving with. A yanks his bow out of the second compartment in his quiver, flinging the latter efficiently over his shoulder and loosely knocking an arrow in his ever so charming, laughably antiquated way. Seconds spent in cover while he gets his bearings as to the identifiable threats in the area, including the terrifying soldier-assassin ballet happening in front of him. They go careening into darkness and for an instant there's a tug to assist…but there's a sniper on site. He watches for the muzzle flash of a sniper in the darkness or an accidental reflection of fiery light on a scope lens. "Barnes! I'm going to be pissed if you die!" Clint huffs.

He knows there's a shooter out there. It's at the back of his mind. But….he can't let Volya kill anyone who's left (assuming anyone is) and then go haring off into the dark. Buck's done his best to warn whatever remaining SHIELD agents there are…..and it's past time when he might think of looking for a radio link.

IS there a weird, distant echo of pride in the dark little corner that Winter still holds? Perhaps. To see what he might've been, without those patched-together weaknesses, without those fissures in that perfect loyalty. "Barton," he yells, from whatever shadowy pile he's ended up in. "Call it in! Call us backup!" Because that worked *so* well this time. Trying to pin Volya, or knock him out - taking as much of the incoming damage as he can on the arm.

Where exactly are they? Nothing to see in the shadowy darkness, the foliage overtaking the flanks of the road. The ignited gasoline spreads to the second vehicle. Its liquid coils run serpentine, coming alive, spitting and hissing serpentine as the crawling flames seeking the source. That's going to be rather ugly but, hey, less evidence.

Clint has a fair bit of looking around to do before he spots anything, and it's more than likely the sheen of light off Bucky's arm in metal cladding than silhouettes divorced from the gloom. The impacts of fists and feet hurt, no doubt, though it's a one-sided affair. Volya does not erupt in sound, and he sure as hell doesn't spit anything back.

And then…. well. Bucky goes and gets kicked in the ankle. And shot in the ankle, as it happens, in the blur of motion. Good thing he had a bracelet.

Good thing one of them is scrambling to run.

Barton does not immediately call it in for whatever reason, but presumably the other maybe alive agents could react accordinglylike the long-suffering satchel of penes he was traveling with if the crash didn't kill him but at the moment his priority isn't calling for assist. Unfortunately for them. Communication has never been his strong suit—ask his wife.

Burning gasoline on the road is dangerous, but it adds light to an increasingly dangerous situation, so you gotta take the good with the bad on that. A flash of metal (sans banana magnet, though Clint has to assume), whatever and whoever is running, Clint decides that's probably not a /good/ thing and straightens himself, pulling taut in spite of the scream of protest in his new bullet-aerated skin, he lets fly an arrow fixed with a very peculiar, rather large payload on it rather than an arrowhead. A lightning bolt in a bottle, the heavy payload will send a stun-gun's worth of electricity surging through, well, whatever it hits. So they best not hope it's Barnes fleeing.

|ROLL| Clint +rolls 1d20 for: 4

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 3

So, he can blame this on being the rough draft. And also the secondary damage. Because Volya has found his feet, so to speak, and Buck's completely off balance. The sniper may not have aimed to break his leg, but there's a moment of terror when the bracelet's shot off his ankle that freezes him solid in mid-stride…..and he more or less faceplants, knowing these are likely his last moments on earth. Maybe this death will stick.

Dangers abound. The world stutter-stops into frozen frames for one of the men, possibly two. An arrow bisects leaping flame, its tip twinkling in fell purpose. Fletching divides the crackle and weak echo with an odd keening.

Volya snaps his head back to the trees, teeth bared in a rictus snarl. Whatever he strives to see in the stygian, smoke-quenched dark, the crack of a bullet and the fire-flash don't give him much pause. Old habits die hard. Especially instincts. He drops, yanking the man with the metal arm away. One sliding, awful moment into the grass and he's wearing Bucky. Or Bucky wears him.

Branches shudder. It's easy to overlook as the lightning surge bursts out in a stunning halo. Surely the rapid shot arrow hits something. And it does. What? Who? The crackle must be so satisfying.

Until the weight balanced on Clint shifts, and one of the more supple arrows in his collection swipes him flat across the flank and backside hard enough to shatter into pieces. That'll leave a mark. Turn and he might see only the hints of a man's face, smeared in soot-black shadows and a black mask. Only his brow is visible, pale as a Siberian snowfall. Those eyes, if they're human at all, coalesce into black nothingness.

«Run, boy.»

There are subtle signs any hyper-attentive trained soul learns to read when they engage in dangerous matters. Nuances of the earthly plane which alert any of the five senses that one can train their brain to alert them to, even without mystical or super-human prowess. The human brain can be so underestimated simply because most folks aren't obsessive enough to take advantage of it. The shift of the breeze or resonant sounds as they're obstructed by a creeping figure or object; the churning of light in a flicker on the periphery of vision; the subtle tug of gravity existing between a body containing mass, only identifiable by a well-tuned body adapted to find that magnetic pull. Clint knows these things.

And not /a single one/ of these traps set in his paranoid little mind are tripped before he feels that shift of weight in his quiver. Alarms /scream/ in his head a second too late. Clint turns with a defensive brace of his bow, too late, his leg buckles, hip giving out for a moment and forcing the archer to one knee as he swipes at /whatever the fuck/ just snuck up on him with his reinforced bow, aimed about knee height. His heart rate jumps.


Worn by Volya indeed. But Buck's still struggling, trying to kick the other Soldier's feet out from under him. Drag him down, act like deadweight. «The fuck do you think you're doing, boy?» he demands, and there's a hint of the old sergeant's growl in his voice. «You're not getting away.» He speaks with a firmness he doesn't feel….and the bracelet being shattered. That, that's chilled him in earnest, because he knows the difference between a damn near impossible shot made deliberately, and the wild carom of something deflected by accident. There's a sharper, more skilled little monster out there.


The ankle will ache. Will it even support Bucky's weight? Thank Agent White, requiescat in pace, for slapping that on at the Director's request. Was it the same side as the metal arm or opposite, something he will shrug off on the uneven roadside terrain or struggle to compensate for?

Volya fights back hard, delivering a brutal kick to the same wounded ankle with all the strength he can possibly muster. His eyes are far from wild, narrowed to the cold, frost-shrouded scrutiny never seen in the fractal black lenses of a man miles away, years away, feet from bloodied fists. The broken cuffs used to restrain him glisten at his wrists. Dirt kicked at the eyes, leaves and twigs flung into his face, they're a matter of convenience. Whatever gives a split-second flinch to slow Bucky down, and he's up and running, dashing, stumbling into the fields and forests nothing nearly so harsh as Siberia. Or wherever they buried them.

The archer, some yards off, is caught in the ghoulish sweep of burning motor oil and gasoline. The other car is already giving up to the flame, orange ghosts permeating the stygian black of a landscape tamed but not well-lit. No one groans; no one's whispering in the radio to SHIELD. Only the deer is a survivor, dashing off to tell its ungulate cousins about a bad encounter with two leggers. When Clint swipes something, his bow should connect with something. The humming twang does, for a moment: the metallic barrel of a sniper rifle pointed at his back. Pitch dark, unblinking eye that traces its lethal trajectory and the one who holds it clearly has no issue with depressing the trigger and ending things. The slightest adjustment takes barely a moment, only that, and he'll be more than happy to ventilate the American archer.


Aw, fire. No.

Fire is a particularly cumbersome foe in Clint's opinion. It does a hell of a job obscuring the senses with smoke and optical illusions from heat and light, especially in the deep dark of BFE. You know, aside from being real burny.

More concerning, still, is the /thing/ with the sniper rifle pointed at him and the cold, calculating stare no /human thing/ should have. All his smart-assed remarks dissipate like water droplets on a skillet, turning the cheater's coin to the blank side, expressionless while the animal portion of his brain takes over, stuffing down the initial spark of fear that tastes metallic in the back of his throat. Survival was the goal.

Down on one knee and pivoted toward his attacker, Clint's planted foot shoves off the asphault and sends him in an agile spin away from the barrel pointed at his spine. Playful, but effective, Clint reaches over a shoulder to pull an arrow from his quiver as he spins hard to the right, dual-weilding at the black-eyed motherfucker with the rifle; his bow attempts to continue to block the deadly cylinder backing hot lead, parrying 'swords' while he thrusts the arrow toward the /thing/. He needed enough time or distance to run. The air was getting too acrid. Even for his blackened lungs.


It's all greyhound instinct now, though VOlya's far more deadly than any plastic rabbit in the wide white world. The shooter….if he wants Bucky, he'll have him. No chance in veering off from his pursuit of that particular wolfling to try and flank the sniper. That arm might as well be a neon sign over his head. Volya's the target, and Bucky's after him hell bent for leather. No attempt at stealth or trickery - he apparently intends on running the bastard down, despite his wounds and bruises.


Dark arrows cut through empty space. Acrid smoke blazes into the air, and the more fuel given the fire, the hotter it burns. Another crackle becomes the choking throat-clearing of an infernal being, as the second sedan aflame really catches. Burping metal and consumed inner upholstery deserve to be run from. Instinct even in the greenest recruit screams to run.

Supposing the dark effigy of the Winter Soldier independent from the winter soldier left on the ground didn't inspire gut-curdling terror. Possibly a bullet whizzing through space was needed to make a man's bowels run to water.

Volya makes for a hell of a sprinter, but distance could be harder to gauge. Doubly so when he never grunts or hisses, and keeps those tertiary sounds to outright silence.

Three Bucklings, three bucklings
See how they run, see how they run
They all run after the good life,
Denied to them as the Devil's price,
Hope Buck dodges the tripwire slice,
And Clint gets home to his wife…


Run is absolutely on the forefront of Clint's mind as he can almost count down the half seconds of consciousness he has left while he forces himself to not cough and expedite the smoke gathering in his lungs. Blue eyes akin to the sky over the sea before a storm red and damp, the storm more vivid from the smoke, but even blurred, he should have hit /something/. Some fuckery was going on here. And when Clint encounters fuckery, the difference between him and the usual red-shirt is that he escapes. With much ego-licking afterward, but none the less.

Spanked (literally), Clint shucks the arrow back in his quiver as he turns away and dashes toward the shell of the least aflame vehicle and what he can only assume is the thinnest point of the threatening flames. Pulling the flap of his jacket over his head and across his mouth to cover his most flamable and sensitive parts. Head down, the spry little bastard runs up onto the hood, over the roof and gets as much height as he can from the burning liquid when he jumps through the fire. Which, okay, looks cool, but is /stupid/. at least he didn't run through burning oil and gas, though. He'll land hard in a roll on the other side, hoping not to smother himself in flamables like a chicken cutlet.Clint mentally repeats to himself mentally, 'Don't burn, don't burn, don't burn, OhJesusMyBallsThat'sHot!'


He's got nothing to throw at Volya to try and bring him down. Shouting won't help, either, that's finally sunk in for now. Trying for quiet to match that of his prey, Buck's gone into that ground-covering stride - not as big as Steve, but faster. And maybe, hopefully, a little more so than his kid.


|ROLL| Clint +rolls 1d20 for: 14


The sedan ignites such that the gas tank explodes about forty-two seconds after Clint goes hell for leather away. The road happens to be safe, for the most part, unless someone has a jet pack stored away for moments like this. Dead agents litter the pavement. No one survives this night without scars, whether a scraped, aching ankle; a swatted derriere; a really big dent in the budget.

Bucky charges after Volya, Volya runs for the taste of freedom. Not far from the road is the twisting Housatonic River, hardly too deep but wide enough as it comes out of the Massachusetts hills to be a nuisance. How fast does a man with a metal arm swim?


Clint comes out into the fresher air with a grunt and sputter, eyes red and the world blurry, he rolls for several feet and pops up with a fluid draw of and arrow and taut square of his objecting shoulders, paranoid for all the right reasons while he blinks the world into focus. "…#*@%!" Some just wanna see the world burn, but it's not high on Clint's list tonight. His body protests, but the archer switches out his arrow in a fluid motion, swipes the new bit of ammo over the nearest flame, the head sparks and sizzles to life with a sharp hiss. A fuse. Clint gets to his feet and starts to run in the direction he'd last seen Barnes and Volya, firing the sputtering arrow high into the air over his best estimate where one may run. The arrow vanishes into the dark, then explodes in the air, hanging in the sky, illuminating it with a slow-burning, bright, amber light. Flare arrow, bro. He hopes to shed some light as to Volya and Bucky's location and maaaaaybe signal an emergency to some onlooker who didnt notice two damn carfires.


|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d20 for: 20


|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 15


|ROLL| Clint +rolls 1d20 for: 8


Oh, this is really great. Because Buck, it turns out, is an excellent swimmer. And when they hit the water, he closes the distance….nevermind that a fight in the middle of a river in autumn would usually be a hugely bad idea. Hypothermia, indeed. Though these two are supersoldiers.


Never mind that Volya was raised in Siberia or some hellhole adjacent that makes winter hardly an issue. He hits the Housatonic under the burning light and doesn't bother swimming because the lazy current dammed in too many places wouldn't be a challenge at the best of times. Never mind the high water is nothing next to the Lena or the Ob or half a dozen other miserable places no one likes to swim.

All that matters when Buck closes the difference, his sopping, silent counterpart is already turning with a fatalistic glare in his eyes and a cold, expressionless reaction. So be it. He opens and closes his hands into fists. Perhaps that's the danger of it all. Nothing lights the man's face. Nothing would imply he cares.

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