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Dance While the Sky Crashes Down NC-17/~56k Frank/Gerard 1 страничка


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Dance While the Sky Crashes Down

Summary: The apocalypse isn't like in the movies. The real thing doesn’t need any blood thirsty zombies or big explosions. It doesn’t need any special effects. It’s just the end of the world. Period.

Although, technically, the world isn’t over. The earth is still rotating at its usual pace. There’s still oxygen to breathe and birds are chirping in the trees and on the power lines. There are clouds in the sky and the rain still smells the same.

Warnings: Minor character death, violence, gore.
Notes: Thank you tempore and liescontinue for the beta.
Disclaimer: This is fiction.

Frank wakes up, his feet tangled up in his sheets, his skin drenched in a cold sweat.

He opens his mouth and gulps a lungful of air. He coughs. His lungs are stuffy. His head feels like it’s been wrapped in cotton.

It’s his second pneumonia this year. Frank is starting to get used to them even though he fucking hates this. He hates feeling useless and small. He hates not being able to breathe. He hates coughing up a lung when he wakes up. He hates this feeling of drowning in his own snot when he goes to bed.

Frank checks his alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s barely morning. He shouldn’t be up.

Fucking nightmares. He gets them a lot lately. They seem to be a side effect of the pneumonia or maybe a side effect of the drugs.

All Frank knows is that it’s still night outside his window and he’s wide awake, sweating like he just ran a fucking marathon, his breath hitching, his throat raw.

He checks the bottle of water on his nightstand and realizes it’s empty. Fuck. He hates getting up like this in the middle of the night. He hates waking up his mom for no reason but she has supersonic ears or something and always hears Frank as soon as he opens his door.

She’s supposed to wake up soon to go to work though. She has an early shift at the diner.

Frank rolls out of bed and his mattress creaks. He shuffles across the room in his boxer shorts and wraps a hand around the door handle. He presses it carefully and pulls the door open.

The air in the hallway is cold. Frank shivers and runs back to his bed to grab his hoodie.

In and out. He just needs to get to the kitchen and then he can go back to bed and bury himself under his duvet.

When he passes his mom’s room, Frank notices the door is ajar. He takes a step forward and peeks inside.

His mom isn’t there. Her bed is unmade. It smells strange, not like his mom usually smells like. There’s something odd going on but Frank can’t really tell what it is. Maybe he’s just imagining things. Maybe he’s just feeling like this because of the nightmare. Maybe the silence swallowing him isn’t anything strange.

Frank shrugs. Maybe his mom is getting ready for work.

There’s a light in the kitchen. It’s pale and cold.

It takes Frank a few seconds to realize the light is coming from the fridge. The door is gaping open. There’s a carton of milk on the floor, its contents spilt on the tiles, pooling under the table.

Frank circles the kitchen counter to pick up a rag to clean up the mess and finds his mother lying down, face down on the floor, her fingers clenched around shards of glass that used to be her favorite mug, the one Frank got her for mother’s day a couple of years ago and that said All Star Mom.

The only word Frank can make out now is Mom.


Frank kneels down at her side and grabs her shoulder.


Mom doesn’t wake up so Frank shakes her. He pulls her up into his lap and pushes her hair out of her face.

Her eyes are closed. Her face is pale, almost as pale as the pool of milk spreading in front of the fridge.


Frank doesn’t remember his first aid class a lot but he knows he’s supposed to check his mom’s pulse. He’s supposed to tilt her head back and blow air into her lungs.

He presses his fingers to his mom’s jugular. But maybe it’s not her jugular. He presses his fingers a little on the left of that and a little on the right. There’s nothing. He’s probably doing it wrong though.

“Mom,” he calls out, his voice a little more high pitched than usual. He cannot fucking panic now. His mom needs help.

Then Frank remembers he should probably call 911.

He could hurt his mom if he tried to help her. Fuck. Frank is only sixteen. He’s not a fucking doctor.

Letting go of his mom is the hardest part. He pulls her in a sitting position and props her against the fridge. Her head falls back and knocks a Tupperware with last night’s zucchini casserole out of its shelf.

The food spills onto the floor and mixes with the milk. It looks like guts from where Frank is kneeling. Gross.

“Stay here, mom,” he whispers as he gets up and goes to look for the phone. He feels a little stupid just saying that because it looks like she’s not going anywhere now.

Frank grabs the cordless phone and dials 911. The buttons feel too small and Frank’s fingers feel too big.

He presses the phone against his ear and waits for it to ring.


When Gerard wakes up, it’s still night outside. He shouldn’t have drunk all the coffee in the world last night. The bed next to his is empty. Mikey isn’t home yet. Maybe he decided to sleep over at Pete’s. It wouldn’t be the first time.


Gerard grabs the remote from the floor and turns on the TV. If there’s something that can send him back to the land of slumber, it’s the weather channel. It never fails him but the screen stays desperately black. Gerard punches the buttons but nothing happens.

It can’t be because there’s a blackout. He can see a light, filtering through the door, and his alarm clock is working, big red digits and blinking dots. The TV set is old. It’s been down in their room for years now. It's probably fucked.

Gerard kicks his blankets down and throws the remote back on the floor. He grabs his head between his hands and rubs at his eyelids. He yawns and slowly gets up. He trips a couple of times as he drags his feet upstairs. He is more awake by the time he reaches the basement door.

As he pushes it open, the door creaks and the sound echoes through the house. There’s a strange smell in the air. It smells like metal. The air is heavy, stuffy.

Gerard heads straight for the living room and crashes on the couch. He pulls out a blanket because it’s a little chilly inside the house and turns on the TV. It blares, too loud at 5 am and Gerard fumbles with remote, his heart racing. He presses the mute button and settles under the fleece blanket that smells like beer and coffee. He ventures a quick glance back at the corridor, hoping he didn’t wake his parents up and to his relief, their door stays closed.

The image appearing on TV isn’t what Gerard expected. Usually, at 5 am, there’s always something on, reruns of game shows or documentaries. But this morning, there’s nothing on, just a message stating that the channel is experiencing technical difficulties.

Gerard flips the channels and everywhere, it’s the same. Local stations appear as snow. He’s about to turn off the TV when Gerard hears something behind him. It’s a thud and a muffled crash. Then he can hear someone murmuring.

Maybe his parents are up after all. Gerard turns off the TV and sinks deeper on the couch. He pulls the blanket up to his nose and listens to the sounds of the house. The walls crack. There’s another murmur and then silence comes back.

A car alarm goes off somewhere in the neighborhood. A dog barks and then another one joins it. By the time Gerard closes his eyes, the sun is slowly coming up and the car alarm is still sounding in the distance.

It doesn’t really bother Gerard. He’s been known to sleep like the dead and block out all outside interference, car alarms, dogs howling, his fucking alarm clock or even his mom when she tries to shake him awake when he’s getting late for class.

The chorus of dogs swells up to the point where it doesn’t even sound like dogs anymore. It sounds like an uninterrupted chant, like a thousand voices singing Gerard to sleep.


The ambulance never comes.

Frank tries to call 911 but the line is busy. Then he tries to call his dad. He tries to call his aunt Libby and his friend Hambone. He tries every single fucking number he can remember but no one picks up.

The sun rises, cold, bright, unwelcome. Frank drops the phone at his feet and pulls his mom into a hug. She feels so cold now. Her skin feels like plastic, hard and lifeless.

“Mom,” he whispers against her ear.

Now that the sun is up, everything looks more real, more definite. Frank stares at the spilled milk and the zucchini casserole, spread on the tiled floor. He should probably clean this. Although, does it really matter now?

It takes Frank a few minutes, maybe an hour before he lets go of his mom. He’s not really sure how long it’s been but when he finally puts her down, she’s colder, rigid. He plants a kiss on her forehead and that’s when it hits him. His mom is long gone. This isn’t her. This is an empty shell.

His stomach flips and then Frank has to scramble up on his feet and run to the sink. He pukes until his insides hurt, until he’s crying and shuddering, hunched over the sink, his fingers latched onto the ledge, his knees slowly giving out under him. He pukes until he doesn’t have anything left in him and slumps down on the floor.

Mom is still where he left her. Frank studies her for a few seconds, wishing she could just move a finger or blink at him. But there’s nothing. Frank’s shoulders shake. His throat closes. There’s something wet streaming down his face. He wipes it off with the back of his hand and sniffles.

She’s dead.


It’s supposed to be a school day today. Gerard doesn’t need to check the clock in the kitchen to know he’s late for class. He probably missed the bus too. His stomach growls loudly.

Gerard rolls down the couch and wraps the blanket around his shoulders. Maybe his mom decided to let him sleep in today. Or maybe Gerard got the days mixed up again and it’s really Saturday.

Either way, Gerard goes to the bathroom and empties his bladder. He makes a face at the mirror as he passes in front of it and tousles his hair. He doesn’t need a fucking shower today.

There’s no note for him on the kitchen counter. There’s no plate ready for him with jam and toast, and the coffee inside the pot is cold. Gerard is pouring himself a cup when he notices his mom and dad’s cars are still parked in the driveway.

It seems like Gerard got the days wrong again. He just doesn’t remember Friday at all. Maybe he should lay off the pills and the booze for a while. Gerard pops two slices of bread in the toaster and sits up on the kitchen counter.

He shakes his head. No. He’s pretty sure today is Friday. He remembers now because last night, Ray called him and asked him if he wanted to go see The Bouncing Souls play in downtown Newark on Friday night. Tonight.

Gerard’s stomach twists. He jumps down the counter and grabs his cup of coffee.

Maybe they slept in. Maybe they’re both late for work. Gerard will have to be the grown up for once. He will sit back and watch as they run around like Muppets, trying to get ready for work. His dad will be looking for his car keys and his mom will be hoarding the bathroom.

When he reaches their door, Gerard ponders. He shouldn’t go in. He should let them sleep. They can always call in sick later. It’s not like they do this a lot, take a day off from work to catch up on sleep.

After a minute, Gerard pushes the door open. He doesn’t knock. He just steps inside the room and waits for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness.

Everything is quiet. There’s no snoring, no ruffling of sheets. There’s nothing but the smell of metal and sweat. Gerard takes a careful step inside and draws the curtains open.

When he turns around, Gerard gasps. He presses a hand over his mouth to muffle a scream. His cup of coffee slides out of his grasp and crashes on the floor. Mom is lying on the floor, curled up on the rug, her face blue, deep cuts on her hands. Her eyes are wide open and glassy. Her nightgown is wrinkled and pulled up to her thighs.

There’s blood everywhere on the bed. Dad is lying face down in a pool of what appears to be his own blood, his throat slashed, his fingers closed around a shard of glass that used to be part of a table lamp that’s shattered on the nightstand.

Gerard drops to his knees. He opens his mouth but closes it back almost right away. This cannot be happening.

Someone. Something. Someone killed his parents. Someone attacked them in their sleep while Gerard was on the couch. Someone was inside his house.

His next thought is for Mikey. Gerard needs to call Mikey. He needs to make sure Mikey is alright. He needs to call the police too. Fuck. Gerard can’t get up. He falls on his hands and knees and crawls out of the room, panting. He grabs the phone that’s hanging up on the kitchen wall and dials 911.


The air outside is cold. Frank shivers in his t-shirt. It feels like his pneumonia was in another life. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters. The neighbors’ dog is barking in its kennel.

Frank sits down on the porch steps and stares down at his hands. They look too small. They look like they’re not his. They look useless.

Useless. That’s how Frank feels right now, among a multitude of other things. He’s feeling too many things at the same time. It’s overwhelming.

Someone screams. Frank can’t really tell where it came from but it could have been his next door neighbors having one of their screaming matches.

It’s Friday morning. Frank isn’t wearing his watch right now but it should be around the time when everybody heads off to work. Slowly, everyone is going to come out of their house. They’re going to walk up to their cars and drive to work, like it’s just another day. They’re going to do what they do every single day and Frank’s mom won’t. She’s not going to go to work today. She’s not going to make Frank his breakfast. She’s not going to drive him to school because he missed the bus. She’s not going to call every other hour to check up on him and make sure he didn’t die. She’s not going to come home with a pizza and a movie.

She’s not going to wake up. She’s never going to wake up.

Frank wraps his arms around himself and starts rocking back and forth on the stairs. It’s really cold now. He pulls his t-shirt around his knees and stretches it as far as it can go. He should probably go back inside. He will go back inside eventually. Just not now.

It takes Frank a little while, maybe a couple of hours before he realizes something’s wrong. His neighbors’ dog is howling but it’s the only sound Frank can hear. He cannot hear the sound of traffic in the nearby otherwise busy streets. He can hear a siren somewhere, in the distance but that’s all.

Frank gets up and starts walking. He’s not sure where he’s going, barefoot, in his boxer shorts and his stretched out Black Flag t-shirt. He just walks. The sidewalk is hard and cold under his feet, just like his mom when he kissed her.

His neighbor, Mrs. Serano, who usually sits on her front porch as soon as the sun rises isn’t here this morning. Her chair is empty. Her blinds are closed. There is no newspaper on her well trimmed lawn.

It’s like the entire world disappeared.


“Gerard?” Mikey’s voice comes muffled, raspy at the other end of the line but it’s his voice and Gerard can’t believe he’s finally able to talk to his brother.

“Mikes. Mikey. Something happened,” Gerard stutters. It’s not going to be easy. Gerard doesn’t even know where to begin. How do you tell your little brother that you’re suddenly orphans; that you found your father face down in a pool of his own blood.

“I know,” Mikey replies with a croak.

He knows? How does he know? “How?”

“Pete’s mom tried to kill me with a letter opener this morning. I had to lock her up in a closet. And Pete…”

For a second, Gerard thinks the line is gone. His phone has been acting out this morning. He couldn’t even call 911.

“Mom and dad,” Gerard says before swallowing the lump in his throat. “They’re…” He cannot bring himself to finish. Saying it would make it real and he’s not ready yet to accept it.

“Pete’s... I don’t think he’s going to be okay. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. His dad is dead. I found him on the couch. I thought he was sleeping but then I couldn’t wake him up. I tried calling 911 but the line is busy. How can the line be busy when I have an emergency?”

This cannot be a coincidence. People don’t just die like this. They don’t try to kill each other with letter openers. Or table lamps. Something’s happened.

“I’m gonna pick you up,” Gerard says. He feels numb. He feels like this has to be a dream. Everything looks like it’s wrapped in a cloud of smoke. Colors are dull. Gerard can taste bile on his tongue. He can still smell the coffee he spilled all over the carpet in his parents’ bedroom and over his shoes.

There’s a loud thud on Mikey’s end and Gerard stops breathing. He listens, waiting for Mikey to say something, tell him he’s waiting for him and that he’s safe for now, but the line cuts off.

“Mikey?” he calls but it’s useless because the line is dead. He hangs up and calls back. The call goes straight to voicemail. Gerard doesn’t leave a message. He doesn’t have any time to waste. He scrambles up to his feet and pockets his phone.

He stumbles into his parents’ bedroom and dry heaves as the smell of death and cold coffee fills up his lungs.

Dad usually leaves his keys on the dresser but this morning they’re not here. He doesn’t have the heart to search the pockets of the pair of slacks that’s neatly folded on the chair next to the nightstand.

He doesn’t want to be here longer than he has to.

Gerard runs out of the room and heads for the kitchen. He hunches over the sink for a few seconds but manages to keep his meager breakfast (if you can actually call two sips of cold coffee, breakfast) down.

He gasps for air. It smells like something burnt in here. Then Gerard remembers he never got the slices of bread out of the toaster. They’re cold now and blackened. Gerard stares at them for an instant, not knowing what to do with them. He’s not hungry anymore. He just wants to see Mikey.

The only keys he manages to find are his mom’s. Gerard never drove her minuscule car before but it’s probably just as easy as driving his dad’s Volvo.

Except it’s not.


The first, living, breathing person Frank sees is a one of his neighbors, Mr. Chalmers. The man is old, almost a fossil. He likes to talk about conspiracies and the government constantly trying to kill him. This morning, he’s running down the street in his slippers and his bathrobe. He’s running faster than Frank has ever seen him but Frank doesn’t know what he’s running after. Or from.

Then he sees the little girl.

Thank God, the little girl doesn’t see him.

Frank knows her. She’s his dentist’s daughter. Marla or Maria. She’s barely seven years old but this morning, she doesn’t look innocent or like a kid at all. She’s brandishing a pair of shears over her head and she’s screaming. She’s saying things Frank has never heard a kid her age say (well, that is if he doesn’t count his cousins Gino and Tony who swear like fucking sailors at the tender ages of six and eight years old).

Mr. Chalmers is running away from her. He’s running towards Salter Place looking like he just escaped the local old folks home.

Dr Parvano’s little angel looks more like she escaped the looney bin as she chases poor Mr. Chalmers, her shears high above her head, opening and closing the blades rapidly. click click click.

Frank shakes his head. This doesn’t feel like reality. This feels more like he fell into some kind of crazy alternate universe where little girls want to cut old dudes in half and where Frank’s mom is dead. A universe where Frank is walking down the street he grew up in, wearing only boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

It’s freezing outside and Frank’s lungs seem to remember that they’re still full of mucus from the pneumonia. Frank hunches over and coughs until he can’t breathe, until he can’t see anything, until he’s crying.

When he finally manages to take a breath, the streets are empty again. He slowly makes his way back to the house, wondering if he should knock on his neighbors’ doors or if he should just hide from them.

Maybe the little girl is not the only psychopath around.

Frank climbs up the stairs and locks the front door. He picks up a pair of jeans, a hoodie and a pair of socks from his room. He goes into his mother’s bedroom to grab a sheet and lays it over her. Then he sits still on the kitchen floor and waits for this day to end.


Gerard manages to not kill anyone or himself on his way to Pete’s house. Surprisingly, the streets are empty. He passes a couple of cars on his way but that’s all. Which is strange considering it’s Friday morning. A lot of cars are still parked along the curb or in the driveways.

The suburb seems asleep.

Mikey is sat outside of Pete’s house. He looks very tiny. His face is pale and closed. He gets up and walks towards the house.


Mikey turns around and beckons Gerard to follow him inside. Gerard’s never been inside Pete’s house before. He usually stays in the car when he picks Mikey up.

It’s really bright inside, light coming from large bay windows and walls painted in white and cream. The paintings and art decorating the living room all seem pricey. There’s a leather couch and a flat screen TV that probably costs more than Gerard’s dad makes in a month.

All of this makes the scene even more surreal.

“I tried 911 again but I don’t think they’ll come,” Mikey says in a flat tone as he pulls off the jacket covering Pete’s body.

Pete’s eyes are wide open. His mouth is open too, stuck in an expression of pure panic. There’s no blood. Gerard cannot see any wound. It looks like he might have died of natural causes, which is pretty weird considering Pete is sixteen. Sixteen year olds rarely die of heart attacks.

“Maybe it was an aneurism?” he says, thinking out loud.

Mikey shakes his head. “I don’t know but his dad had the same thing,” he replies, laying the jacket of Pete again.

They’re walking towards the couch to inspect Pete’s father when a loud bang startles them.

“I couldn’t let her out of the closet,” Mikey says before biting the corner of his bottom lip. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her but she’s not usually a psycho.”

Gerard grabs Mikey’s wrist and pulls him out of the house. He doesn’t need to see Pete’s father. He doesn’t need to see Pete’s mother either. He’s had his share of dead bodies for the day. Maybe even for the year or maybe for his entire life.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Mikey says and Gerard can see he’s on the verge of crying. It’s probably not the right time to tell him their parents are dead too.

“We need to go now,” he says, wrapping his arms around Mikey and pulling him in for a quick hug. “We need to pack our shit and just leave.” But first Gerard needs to make sure Ray’s okay.

“Are mom and dad alright?” Mikey asks, probably aware that Gerard is hiding something from him. He’s never been a good liar. Not even when it matters.

Gerard shakes his head. Mikey doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t hit Gerard. He doesn’t break down and cry. He just stays still and quiet for a minute before tightening his hold on Gerard.

They stay like this for a few minutes, in a warm, comforting embrace. Gerard is afraid to let go of Mikey. He’s afraid to open his eyes and see this is all real. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend he’s at home, in his room, hugging his brother just because it feels nice.

Maybe they can both pretend a little longer.

When they reach Ray’s neighborhood ten minutes later, the mailbox and part of the driveway is all that’s left of the Toro’s. The house has been replaced by a big burning crater, like it was hit by a meteor, like it was annihilated by some kind of a nuclear explosion, pieces of wall and furniture scattered across the street and on the neighbors’ lawns.
Mikey motions to his door but Gerard stops him. There’s nothing they can do at this point.

They both sit still in their mom’s car for a few minutes, and Gerard stares at a singed tablecloth that managed to fly up into a nearby tree. The pattern’s familiar. Gerard ate a few meals on that thing when he was over at Ray’s.

There’s a piece of the couch Gerard used to sleep on, torn to shreds and crushing the roof of a car that might belong to Ray’s older brother, Lou.

This doesn’t mean Ray’s dead. This doesn’t mean that anyone is dead. Ray could be anywhere. Maybe his family got out before the house blew up.



Night falls and Frank’s stomach starts stirring and growling. It fucking hurts. It makes him feel sick. Then he remembers it’s what being hungry feels like.

He punches himself in the stomach. He shouldn’t be hungry. His mom is right there, lying under a sheet that smells like apple, and she’s not hungry.

Frank crawls up on his feet. He stares out the window and shudders when he notices how everything is pitch black now. There are no lights on in the neighborhood beside the street lights.

He closes the blinds and turns on all the lights in the house, one by one. He turns the TV on and switches channels quickly. There’s nothing on. There’s an emergency broadcast on what used to be NBC. The image is blurry and barely readable. It doesn’t really tell what’s going on. All it says is that the government is urging people to stay inside their homes.

So, it looks like this thing isn’t just here. Whatever is going on, whatever killed his mom and turned Marla (or is it fucking Martha?) into a hedge trimmer killer, it’s everywhere. It’s not just this street and it’s not just Belleville.

Frank turns off the TV. He curls up in a ball on the couch and stares at his own reflection in the black TV set. He looks like he died too, dark circles under his puffy eyes, lips chapped.

Maybe it’s the zombie apocalypse he’s been preparing for all these years. Maybe his mom is going to wake up and try to eat his fucking brains out. It doesn’t seem likely, though. She would have done so by now. Frank’s been staring at her for hours and there was no movement coming from under the sheets.

Frank doesn’t sleep much that night. He doesn’t manage to shut off his brain. He thinks about possible scenarios. He thinks about what he’s going to tell his dad when he calls. Then he remembers he didn’t check back on his dad.

Fuck. How fucking stupid is he? He should have tried to call him back.

Frank fumbles for the phone on the coffee table. He dials his dad’s number and waits, his patience running out as the fourth ring sounds. It rings five more times and then there’s a click. Frank gasps. He needs to tell his dad what happened but first he needs to make sure he’s okay.


“You’ve reached Cheech Iero. I’m not here at the moment but you can leave me a message after the beep.”

There’s a beep. Frank hangs up and throws the phone across the room. It crashes against the wall, little bits of plastic and wires flying everywhere, sliding along the wooden floorboards. It doesn’t matter anymore. Everyone is dead. He’s the only one left. Or maybe Mr. Chalmers is still alive. Maybe the little girl never caught up to him. Maybe there’s someone else, somewhere.


They spend the night huddled in Gerard’s tiny bed. Mikey sobs, his fingers latched onto Gerard’s t-shirt, his body shaking. He grows still after a little while but Gerard doesn’t stop petting his hair.

Gerard doesn’t get any sleep. He cannot stop thinking about how his mom looked, her face blue; how much blood there was on his parents’ bed. He cannot chase the image of his dad, a shard of glass in his hand, his throat cut open. He sees Ray’s house too; the couch and the tablecloth and Lou’s car, mere relics of what used to be one of Gerard’s favorite place in Belleville.

Mikey sleeps. Maybe not for long but he does sleep. He stops sniffling and then his breathing gets more regular. His fingers slowly let go of Gerard’s t-shirt. He goes limp in Gerard’s arms.

Gerard needs a plan. He needs to be the grown up now that his parents are gone, now that it’s just the two of them against the world or what’s left of it. He needs to take care of Mikey and keep him safe but he’s not even sure how to do that or where to start.

It seems obvious now that they should go. They can’t keep hiding in the basement forever while his parents’ corpses are rotting in the upstairs bedroom.

But where would they go? Where is safe? Gerard doesn’t even know.

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