Jack/BtVS

Oct. 29th, 2007 11:54 pm
[identity profile] mimarie.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] vintagemilitary
Story Title: California Dreamin’ (2/2)
Author Name/LJ: [livejournal.com profile] mimarie
Crossover Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: Hard R (sex, death, vampirism and rather a lot of swearing...)
Word count: (total) 10,500
Characters: Jack Harkness, Drusilla, Spike, assorted Scoobies
Spoilers: AU after DW S1/13 Parting of the Ways / BtVS S2/10 What’s My Line pt 2

Part one (or you could just scroll down a bit, and then you get summaries and suchlike too)







~




So quiet, peaceful. Somewhere nearby a tinny speaker rattled over a reel of inane laughter, a quiet squeak - a wheel needing oil? - and further off, the rumble of traffic, land based, internal combustion engine, and the faint stink of pollution - nothing later than early twenty-second century. And over all that -

- a smell.

No, lots of smells, but one blanketing odour filling his nostrils, clouding his brain in colour - rich and warm with bright highlights. He could pick them out, taste them, a silvery-blue, sharp and interesting, exciting, splashes of green, something organic, a fetid streak amongst fresh, clean hues, but mainly, overwhelmingly - enticingly - red; red-brown and crimson, scarlet, magenta and mauve - shades from orange to violet-black, tiny intoxicating tastes of rich pigment drawing him further and further…

hey -”

The room snapped into focus, its high, cobweb-hung ceiling swathed in shadow, from the thick iron girders to the top of the shimmering satin hangings surrounding the - bed?

Sitting suddenly upright, Jack’s hands flew to his mouth, to his throat and found... nothing. No ringing wounds, no scratches, nothing on his upper body at all. Swallowing heavily and wincing in anticipation, he felt down over his stomach, vaguely noting the unlikely lack of pain in his shoulders and arms, the distinct lack of manacles as he gingerly tested his balls, feeling carefully along the flaccid length of his prick before flopping back down.

And one other minor thing: how exactly - when - did he get naked?

Hey,” the voice was louder this time, a little more desperate, trying to shout without making too much noise. “Hey... oh, thank god, you’re awake.”

“Thanks for that. I was wondering.” Jack shook his head, looking around for his clothes as he sat up again. Whoever the - young, male - owner of that voice was, he wasn’t any kind of threat, and besides, there was enough to worry about already. Maybe if he ignored him he’d leave him alone. Although, if he knew where that delicious smell was coming from, Jack’s stomach would thank him; he couldn’t remember eating since....

Scraping at the corners of his mouth, he tasted the brownish residue; yeah, definitely blood - old, dead, dried blood. Okay, so maybe that happened, but the rest of it must have been some kind of fucked-up hallucination - one big obvious giveaway, him not being dead if nothing else. And at least that would explain where the hell the crazy bitch got all that shit about Rose and the Doctor from; some kind of sodium pentothal derivative maybe?

Something else to add to the list. He’d obviously been dead long enough on the Game Station for the Agency implants to deactivate, all those useful little souped-up hormones passing out of his system - along with every damn thing else. He really needed to remember not to wear leather pants the next time he picked up a suicide mission... Not that the chances of having to peel off his own filth-streaked clothing post-mortem twice were too high.

So, what were they, cultists? Vampire cultists? The literature had been pretty vague in places; although the real thing had definitely existed - until Thirty-eighth Century genetic advances made cellular regeneration a possibility, anyway - and there’d been just as many fakes, if not more. Idiots, running round in black cloaks - or black silk dresses? He had to give them credit for detail, though: stripping him was a nice move - suggestive. Although in their place he’d have smeared his clothes with shit and left them lying next to the bed - a little odour to add to the atmosphere...

“Josh? No - Jack? Oh god, that is you, isn’t it? Do you remember me? You were hitting on my - no, look, helping.... Oh, god. Look, can you - please? Y’know. Sort of just.... Help?”

Peering across the broad, darkened expanse, Jack found the source of the voice: a blue flash, gorgeous colour, and young - not much more than a teenager - dark hair and a vaguely familiar face, where had he seen him before? It wasn’t as if he knew a lot of people in - what was it, 1997? - and whoever this guy was he was damned persistent. Hell, maybe he’d got some idea where his clothes had gone. And then there was his tech... Waving one hand absently at the distant figure, Jack resumed his search; clothes he’d manage for somehow, but the controller, his wristcom, the TARDIS key…

Where to start, though? The bedroom - more like half a room, two and a half walls, the rest of it no more than floaty, soft material - looked like a weird cross between a Victorian brothel and a nursery for a child with some serious problems. A family of china dolls congregated at the foot of the bed around a congealed mass of wax, the remnants of burned out candles on every flat surface, but mainly - overwhelmingly - there was colour. Bright and true - a glint of silver flashed through a scintilla of greens and blues, a familiar shade of bronze following, proceeding across his vision like nothing Jack had ever seen before.

He blinked again: okay, so they’d emptied his pockets onto the dressing table. At least that meant he didn’t have to hunt for his keys. Now, maybe if he could shut it all out for a minute he’d clear his head... Only there was an unnatural sense of rightness about the depth of his vision. Every tiny detail - not closer but clearer; it had to be an after-effect of whatever he’d been spiked with, and...

“Spike?”

Spike and Drusilla. It was a step up from Herman and Lily, maybe, but... where the hell were they? If this was the end of their stupid damn game, it made no more sense than the rest of it. Why would they clear out, leaving him naked, on a bed, with his belongings - if not his clothes? Maybe in a few years he’d come across a stack of skin flicks he didn’t remember starring in, but -

“Sssssh. Don’t. Look, they’ve gone. I don’t know - somewhere, can you please, please - just get me down off here, before they come back - oh, god, Buffy, where the hell are you…” The voice was familiar too: he'd been anxious when they met earlier, protective and trying to look bigger than he was - well, he looked pretty tall, his feet were touching the floor, so unless they'd shortened the chains...

Okay, will you quit shouting at me? Can’t you see I’m having a problem here?” Blinking against the sharply-tuned images, Jack scooped up the controller and the TARDIS key on its chain, hanging them both around his neck as he ducked to look under the bed. Okay, now - that was just plain weird. His pupils had to be dilated to fuck to be able to see so clearly in the gloom under there. But no sign of his wristcom, no clothes... Hell - maybe if he did what the kid wanted he’d shut up and help him find them. “Fine. You want to get down? Don’t fancy playing their stupid game?”

Game? Are you blind? No - look - sorry, I didn’t mean... Please, just can you - really -”

Jack stopped in the draped satin ‘doorway’, the jumbled mass of cringe and apology battering like a trapped fly at his awareness; small, subtle and meaningless against the sudden waft - or maybe a shade - a tone of flavour? Creamy fabric stroked his spine through his fingertips, textured, tangible patterns of light swallowing his senses, upside-down, inside-out, his nerve endings vellum for needle-like nibs, incandescent splashes of bright and dark pigment - primary, tertiary - blending unmixed over every cell, every follicle, and the taste...

What the fuck had they given him? Acid? But it was all so clear - every image overwriting the next in perfect clarity, frame to frame to frame to... A flat, dark gleam broke the bland grey monotony of the concrete floor and he stooped, his grin of relief at the familiar scent of leather and sweat turning into a wince as his stomach contracted at the movement. Right, that was all his tech, now what about clothes? Those boots had been comfortable...

Another step toward the dark haired boy - man; testosterone painted in dark green and purple, electric blue, pink - and an empty heave clenched across Jack’s gut, saliva pooling under his tongue. “What did they give me? You’ve been here, you saw them - saw me - what did they do? What was it? Oh - fuck...” Damn but he was so hungry - starving but craving. If he could just name the flavour; like chocolate, the Doctor’s Kreelanien brandy; rich and thick... the thought cloyed on his tongue and he swallowed hard, trying to suck down saliva as he retched again. He’d just got to eat something, then he’d be fine.

“You got any food? I don’t know what the hell they’ve done to me, but if I don’t eat soon I’m gonna start hurling bile.”

“I - I don’t really...” Twisting frantically in the manacles, the redheaded girl’s so-not-my-boyfriend stretched up on his toes, trying to unhook the chain. “I could - probably find something, but you need to get me down, first.”

Did the guy not think of anyone but himself? Fine, fucking asshole, selfish fucker - he’d see if he’d got any money, and if he couldn’t find anything else he’d have his clothes too - anything to get out of here and find some food.

Bare soles finding concrete, the rough surface dusted with papery ash and grit, another sharp spiral twisted Jack’s gut into synaesthetic knots. Every flavour and none vied to sicken him as the deepening crimson aroma poured over his senses, dancing bright facets catching the scent and the shape of each droplet of sweat on the long, angular face...

The kid didn’t seem to know where to look; wouldn’t catch his eye, sure as hell wasn’t looking down - and there was nothing wrong with that view, Jack had had plenty prettier guys than this one pleading for a taste... but even through the clouding hunger, the thought wouldn’t be denied: the kid was gorgeous. Beautiful brown eyes, puppy-dog soft, reflecting pinpoints of candlelight in warmly hued, malleable flesh, dark hair and a mouth shaped like a kiss, his jaw just seeding with stubble and the long, pale sweep of his throat...

A subtle movement drew Jack’s gaze: a rapid tick, disturbing the bruise-coloured shadows under the liquid-blue collar. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, but the shallow movement resounded, a metronome beating to counterpoint whispers of breath as the scent wafted again, deeper and brighter at once, stinging his eyes and clouding his thoughts.

“It’s you. You’re what I can smell. What are you wearing? What is that?”

Blue shivered under Jack’s palms, the flat flap of leather hitting concrete as the wristcom fell from nerveless fingers and he grasped the kid’s shoulders to shake him, the beat hitting him bodily, writhing under his skin. Jack flinched back, rubbing the numb tingle quivering in his jaw. What the hell had he got on him - what was that?

Stupid bastard.”

“What the fuck did you call me?” Jack looked up in disbelief; if he thought he was in any position to start pissing around -

“I didn’t say anything.” Umber-grained fear sent another raw rumble through Jack’s guts as he leaned closer, craning almost involuntarily until his nose brushed fine, warm, velvety flesh. It was too much - whatever they’d drugged him with had screwed up his senses; sight and sound and scent combining until his nerve endings sparked, confused sensation rippling through his flesh, prickling his gums, his mouth watering over the acid sting, another harsh tremor folding him inwards to hug at the pain.

A laugh this time, and he could hear the sneer running through it -

“Fuck’s sake, Princess, next time you want a new pet I’ll get you a rat - it’d be more intelligent than this pillock.”

“Hush, Spike. He’s learning. Don’t you remember your first?”

The voices were quiet, by no means inaudible, but from the look on the kid’s face Jack was the only one hearing them. Maybe he was hallucinating them too - but... The scent dimmed as he turned away, the sound of breathing too bright in his ears, and he swung back, the pounding roar quickening, a single deep bass-line of flickering crimson and white light shuddering under such a fine, delicate sheath of skin...

A single beat; he was sweating, shivering and his face hurt – but he just couldn’t hear…

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t…”

“No - you - all the noise you’re making - you’re all I can hear, just -” Clamping his fists over his ears Jack curled into another spasm, a writhing, gurgling snake of sound and sensation filling the sharp grey silence in his head. Nothing, nothing else; streaks of bright hunger smeared scarlet over his vision and the kid flinched, trying to scrabble back through the pillar as his eyes and mouth opened together, looking at Jack then focussing over his shoulder and back again -

“Oh god no - I - No - shit - don’t - don’t kill me, I didn’t, oh shit - Buffy!

“You should eat, love. You’ll feel so much better when you get something nice in your belly.” A touch on his shoulder and Jack twisted, his lip curling into a hiss, somehow keeping his feet as the slight figure pushed him firmly back against quivering, shivering heat, the chains above his head rattling in time to the rough silken pant raising hairs on the back of his neck.

You - what the fuck have you done to me?” No one treated him like that; no one fucked with Jack Harkness and came out of it smiling - even if they were as obviously insane as the bitch tipping her head with a giggle to afford him a better hold on her throat. He was going to kill her - once his whole body stopped vibrating with the pulse at his back and the hot crimson wash stopped tormenting his grinding guts, shallow breaths heating his skin like the promise of sex...

“I told you - you’ve got to drink up if you want to be all big and strong. Now, be a good boy and stop playing with your dinner.” The smile gleamed brightly in Drusilla’s eyes as she reached over his shoulder and a gasp-flavoured sob razed Jack’s back, intoxicating prismatic smoke staining his senses, heavy, delicious and living and - wet...

“Here now, I’ll be mummy, shall I?”

Crimson painting her fingertips, the slow trickle shaded the crease of one knuckle, deliciously filling each wry, asymmetrical curve of Jack’s fracturing thoughts and his gut twisted again. Biting his lip to keep back the groan, his throat contracted as the delicious scent caught on a sharp slice of pain, washing dark-edged over his tongue.

The hand pressed to his lip found wetness, and something more - something sharp...

“No.”

That wasn’t - not impossible, but... It was an hallucination. A stupid sex game, this wasn’t - it couldn’t be -

“No.”

“Oh yes, baby. See?” Dripping fingertips parted his lips, cooling now, but so alive - like nothing Jack had ever tasted before; all the shades of sensation resolving to red and he followed thoughtlessly, letting her lead him, unable to resist the pull of his stomach growling for more - that glorious scent and the flavour...

“That’s better; you show your pretty face to the nice little boy, now. There. That’s right...” It was intoxicating - pale, sweating fear tingling salty ammonia over his tongue, the boy’s lean body shook as he struggled with the chains holding him, huge brown eyes widening as Jack leaned to the dark trickle welling at his throat -

Hot, vital, delicious - everything the first taste had promised and more; hot skin and salt and the body pressed hard under his - a full-frontal assault on every nerve ending - it was better than sex...

Another long lap and a whimper - a sob - blue rain tickled Jack’s taste buds and as Drusilla’s grip on his shoulder loosened, he reached round to drag her hand over his hip, blood calling blood, the ripple writhing through his belly, tightening his balls as it shivered his skin, raising hairs and a twitch in his prick.

But there were too many senses to please here at once - there had to be a less awkward angle.

One determined tug and the chains pulled free with a rattle of dust and grey fragments. The struggling body thrown easily over his shoulder, Jack cocked an eyebrow at the approaching squeak, dismissing the blonde’s bark of annoyance with a shrug as he smiled an invitation at the shining dark woman. It seemed a shame to waste such a nice convenient bed, after all...







Curled like a cat, Drusilla rolled her neck as she stroked the soft chemise over her shoulders, the movement drawing Jack’s attention away from the dark expanse of glass momentarily.

“What’s the matter, love? You don’t need that to know you’re beautiful. Beautiful forever, now”

“But I can’t see it...” Looking away from the shimmer of reflected wood and the dented, tasteless bed-linen, Jack resumed his frustrated scowl at the azure shirt, the oily glisten of raw silk that had vanished, as invisible to the broad, cracked glass as his own flesh as soon as he had reached for it. It might be petulant to complain after the beautiful darkness she’d given him, but he didn’t care - he felt cheated. What fun was there in stealing all these lovely clothes, in the effortless play of his new strength and energy, if he couldn’t appreciate the sight of himself?

“You can feel, though. Sweet poppet, don’t be upset, now - mummy likes what she got you. Here, let me see it for you.” Jack’s frown disappeared at the light touch, and he tipped his head to roll one cheek into the cup of her hand, the glittering light in his smirk catching the dark of her eyes and spreading to shine through her translucent skin like moonrise.

“Can’t you feel it? How sky-blue-deadly and delicious it is? I thought of your eyes when I brought him back for you to have your fun.” Swaying back into Jack’s arms, Drusilla pulled his hands in slow rhythmic sweeps across her belly as she surveyed the shirt’s previous owner. Bare limbs sprawled motionless on the rug where their efforts had deposited him, broad chest and softly muscled thighs mottled with bruises and faded red-brown stains, his dulled brown eyes considering the bland reflection of exsanguination as art form. “And you had such fun, didn’t you, sweet? My Spike was all shocked at you, he thought you were full of daisies and daydreams, such a nice playmate for his Dru. Only we know, don’t we lovely, my sweet baby Jack. There’s still stars in you, stars and gold lights, all shiny and hot with nasty sharp thorns - made me bleed - I could taste them, taste the gold stars in your blood, in your belly - can we play with your stars? Are they going to burn me all up?”

“Every time. Isn’t that why you wanted me? Or was the ass enough?”

“Don’t be bad now, all them rude words in you. Be nice, poppet, or mummy will have to punish you again.”

“Oh, fuck, no...” Leaning to bite softly at her ear, Jack growled at the shifting pull of flesh, the bright sting of sharp and Drusilla’s purr grew louder as his fangs pierced her skin. “D’you promise?”







The shirt’s silken blue whisper caressed Jack’s scored flesh deliciously and he turned to grin at the woman stretched naked on the bed before wriggling into the snug-fitting jeans as well. The kid’s hips were narrower than his, not that it was a problem - he’d just leave a few buttons undone, and the shirt too, why not? Let blondie see what he’d got. He might not be particularly agile, but hell - legs, wings, wheels; he’d never been prejudiced. Besides, it was a damn good sight, and if he wasn’t going to get to appreciate how good he looked, he should let as many people as possible do it for him.

As he slipped the silvery chink of chain and its invaluable cargo into his pocket, the thought made him smile again - Rose had appreciated the way he looked well enough. Whatever misplaced notion of friendship - of her naivety - had kept him away from her wasn’t going to stop him getting what he wanted now; he’d rectify that little oversight just as soon as he got back. The Doctor too; although... He shrugged - whatever the consequences, he’d deal with them when he got there; just like he usually did.

“You know - last time I died...” Jack stopped and then laughed, shaking his head as the grinding roar sounded again. “What did you say it was? A Model T?”

“Now, love, there’s no need to be nasty. My Spike loves his car.”

Right.”

“You be nice, now. Go on, go and make friends.” Rolling off the bed, Drusilla ran a slow hand over Jack’s chest and then shooed him towards the choked sound of the stuttering carburettor as he reached for her. “Go on, go and help. And no arguing. If my beautiful boys can be nice together, then we can all share.”

Smirking, Jack settled for another quick grope before he let himself be shoved away, then followed the sound of squeaking and swearing from the enclosed yard, rolling his shoulders until they cracked. Where the hell she thought they were going in that, when along with everything else he hadn’t needed to tell her she must surely know...

He rubbed his chest, smooth articulations of muscle shifting under the skin where the thin ache of the Dalek ray had finally ceased in its faint ringing surge - after three years it was about time - and stood back to watch as Spike heaved himself over into the driver’s seat, leaning precariously to add another long strip of tape to the top of the windscreen. “Nice heap of crap you’ve got there. Just because you can’t see out, doesn’t mean no one else can see it. You ever consider a trade in? Something to match your eyes, maybe?”

“That’s my car you’re talking about, our transport. You want to fry? Be my guest. I’d pin you out myself, only Dru’d be upset. Make yourself useful - sit under a hole or fix one.”

Catching the duct tape squarely, Jack hissed, enjoying the flexible twist of speed as he telegraphed the roll back at Spike’s head - only for the other man to pluck it out of the air impossibly quickly, every tiny movement slowing to the pace of his own perceptions and choreographed in beautiful simplicity. Pale and graceful, the blonde leant back to his task, drawing a breath merely so he could mutter under it as Jack peered into the cold mirror of the cracked windscreen. The smooth surface glittered with miniscule fault lines and broader cracks, faint traces of mica, a coruscation of energy tracing fireworks over his retinas and firing synapses over senses still wakening to new potential. And nothing else reflected there but the ceiling and walls... Well, he’d have to get used to that, wouldn’t he.

“I’m going to stake you myself, you know.” Spike’s sneer belied his conversational tone as Jack slid across the broad, charred seat, the smoking butt narrowly missing the smooth fall of blue silk to land in his lap and Spike’s lip curled again as the scent of singed hair wafted over tarry brown carcinogens.

Jack shook his head, flicking the dead end out onto the hard packed earth and then turned to return the bland stare with a pointed smirk. “Really. What did I do to deserve that honour?”

“Two things. That nice present Dru brought you? The one whose pretty blue shirt matches your be-yew-tiful eyes?” He snorted, lighting another cigarette from the open packet in his shirt pocket and blowing a long bloom of smoke in Jack’s face. “He was one of the Slayer’s bosom buddies. Name of Xander; stupid bastard, but she liked him. Hence our little road trip. You get the idea of the Slayer, right? Slay-er. Kills vampires. And number two?”

The blond man’s eyes narrowed as he pulled on his cigarette, slowly sucking it down to a hot orange core and then rolled the short stub between his fingertips before flicking it neatly off the centre of Jack’s chest. “Just because my back’s fucked doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with my hearing - or my sense of smell. That’s my princess you’re entertaining there. Don’t get any funny ideas about her. She’s fickle, I know, but you’re no more than a whelp, however nicely you dance her around.”

Biting back a laugh, Jack caught the other man’s eye as a high pitched whine tickled the base of his spine. A blast of energy, something - different, the frequency hit hairs at the nape of his neck, sending a rush of borrowed life to the base of his prick, tingling through his balls, the feeling so strange and familiar - and that noise, that thin, regular cyclical...

...signal.

The soft scritch almost distracted Jack from the reason he’d reached into his pocket, each hair brushed by stitching and weft and then his fingertips closed over the tiny metallic cylinder and the answering reverberation passed though his system like the shock of life, a wave of energy completing its circuit with his flesh as conductor. It was beautiful, purely beautiful - the thought made him laugh out loud, throwing his unfettered hilarity to the dusty ceiling as his face shifted, scoring a slice from his tongue to taste - breakfast, lunch - dinner - the most delicious meal he’d ever tasted, and the most addictive -

Oh, but this was going to be fun. So many interesting places to go, so many species to eat, and in the meantime... Flapping open the strap at his wrist, Jack smiled at the readings. What did the man say? Life - nature’s way of keeping the blood fresh?

“What makes you think I’d be interested in that? I’ve got places to go, people... You know the spiel, besides...” He pulled the controller from his pocket, the key dangling on its familiar length of chain from the smooth whisper of chrome - how long had he kept this thing safe? Such a precious reminder - a promise - of safety and home, abandonment, pain, disillusionment... No more illusions now, no more disappointments; and having a place to start was always such a good thing. “You were saying you wanted to take her back to Europe? You know - before.”

Spike raised a sardonic eyebrow at the dangling preposition, ignoring Jack’s slow slide across the seat with a nicely-turned insolence as he reached up to pat a strip of silver tape back into place. “Before? What - before you got your hands on her?”

“I’ll drop you off if you want, the pair of you. Unless... You could come with me. Cardiff in the fall do anything for you?”

Wales?” The smoking butt followed the snort of laughter across the seat, sparking as it hit the doorframe. “I had you down as a lot of things after that little performance in there, but a sheep-shagger? Oh, Dru’ll be so impressed.”

“I thought you said there was nothing wrong with your ears? I wasn’t trying to impress her, I was fucking her. You remember, the bit where she was screaming my name? Or had you forgotten how that sounds.” Jack leaned closer, ash and whisky tickling his tongue as blue eyes met his; patient hostility in the confident stare; assured and alluring, the blonde vampire stank of hatred, and something else, a hard twist of gold amongst the writhing green tendrils clawing at his calm exterior.

Oh yeah, fun.

Spike held the stare for a moment longer and then snorted, turning back to the windscreen. “What do you want? You think you’re something special, you go piss off outside, go sit in the sun. See how fucking special you are when you’re crispy. You’re nothing - she’ll get bored of you just like she does everyone else.”

Everyone?” Jack smiled, pinching the unlit cigarette from Spike’s fingers and watching his eyes narrow. “I don’t want to push you out, I’ve got plans of my own. Can’t see why a little unexpected present ought to stop me. I’m just saying, there’s nothing to stop us all having a good time, that’s what time’s for, right?”

“Not going to be a lot of fun if we don’t get out of here soon. Little Miss Summers is already after my dust, this is hardly going to make her all peachy and nice.”

Spike reached for another cigarette and then stopped as the harsh scratch of his lighter sounded. Jack inhaled slowly, listening to his lungs filling, the low gurgle and squelch of fluids pressed by the useless rise of his diaphragm, the quiet hum of Drusilla’s song in the bedroom raising hairs on his neck as sharp acid and tar rose in the rich choking - no, no breathing: no choking - the delicate lacework of trails slowly smearing across the stench of cooled death and he leaned to place the cigarette between Spike’s lips.

He’d wanted bacon; it was all just breakfast - he might even pass on the coffee.

“Leave the heap of crap automobile. I’ve got something parked out at the beach that you’re just gonna love. There’s a little trip we need to take, and your precious transport’s just not gonna cut it.”







end


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