Sorry this one took so long, I spent way to much time wordsmithing it trying to get a bead on Sonny.
Hopefully you get the full authentic Sonny Quinn experience.
*** Trigger Warning - Implied Violence/Death of a Child ***
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Sonny will deny it to his dying days but he actually kind of has a soft spot for kids. He does his best to hide it behind a gruff exterior but over the years there have been a couple occasions where the team has come dangerously close to catching on to his secret. That one op in Yemen for example, was a close call. They'd jokingly called him the kid whisperer for a while after he bonded with the little guy over soccer and managed to convince him to reveal the cell phone location before his sister bled out.
On that occasion he managed to play it off as doing what needed to be done for the sake of the mission. After all, no one had wanted to hang around in that house a second longer than necessary with their drop dead time rapidly approaching.
Then Brock and Trent caught him trying to teach the finer points of real football to Lopez's kids in the compound in Mexico. Yeah, that one had been a little harder to find an excuse for. Patriotic duty as a Texan had only carried so much water and the good natured ribbing had endured long past their return stateside.
So he makes damn sure to give Clay a healthy eye roll when Bravo's kid deposits two dirty and shellshocked children in his arms outside the bar.
A guy has a reputation to protect after all.
He protests for good measure until Spenser turns his back and then tightens his hold on the littler one and plants a reassuring hand on the bigger chaps shoulder to steer him into safety.
Sonny is still a little wobbly with relief about finding his team whole and hale in the bar after the bombing. The second he heard the blast he was bracing for a different outcome, almost paralyzed with the possibility that his entire team might have been wiped out all while he was outside chit chatting on the phone. He honestly couldn't even spare a thought for all the people in the street that he rushed past with a focus on one thing only, get to his brothers.
Now he can consider what in meant for the rest of the world outside of Bravo and the carnage around them. Consider the fact that not everyone was as lucky as they were and that there are other people experiencing the very pain he was afraid of right now as they realize their loved ones have gone somewhere they can't follow. He can fully appreciate the miracle that it is these two boys surviving the blast seemingly unscathed, two innocent victims that the son of a bitch behind this attack won't get to claim.
He deposits them at the nearest table. Tells them it will be alright and scans around him for something warm to wrap them in. The Phillipine evening air is a comfortable temperature but he doesn't want to take any sort of chances. Just as he triumphantly discovers a discarded jacket caught up in the rubble, a weird movement registers on his radar at the edge of his peripheral vision. Years and years of experience tells him it's dangerous without actually knowing what he is seeing or why it's alarming. As he turns back he is busy preparing for several scenarios, planning to grab the little ones and hit the deck, trying to figure out how to best throw his body over them while also going for his ankle holster. His master plan is sharply derailed when he tracks the source of the threat back to the booth itself where both youth have exposed their suicide vests and are holding the detonators out towards him in their small little hands.
He holds out his own hands in a placating manor. They are empty and he gives no thought at all to going for one of the many weapons he has concealed within easy reach, even off duty. His mouth suddenly loses all moisture as if he is 3 crackers deep into the cracker challenge. He can't form any words, they probably wouldn't understand them if he could, so instead he just inches slightly forward hoping maybe he can get close enough to grab their hands. In response the older child slowly lifts his head, looking up to stare Sonny right in the eyes and his face morphs into a cold hatred that seems both foreign and familiar. Then in one triumphant and decisive gesture he releases the trigger and the room explodes around them in a fiery inferno.
Sonny wakes up with a gasp. His eyes dart madly around the room until he recognizes the sleeping forms of his teammates in the army barracks they have been racking out on the last couple nights. Gucci Phillipine hotel having been deemed not capable of providing adequate security after the unexpected attack.
He rolls over and uses his pillow to stifle the residual screams of anger and agony that threaten to escape as he transitions back into the real world.
Well that's a new twist.
A really, really fucked up one.
Usually it's Clay that burns nightly in his dreams. Tonight, apparently his subconscious decided to go a different direction. Then again the night is still young and he may yet revisit old faithful if he manages to go back to sleep.
They always start at the same damn moment.
Sometimes he knows exactly what is going to happen and still is completely powerless to stop it. He yells and no one listens, tries to hold onto Clay but finds no purchase. He runs to try to catch up to him but falls further behind. He runs and runs and wakes up gasping because he never catches him in time.
Other times he is as ignorant as he was then and gets to relive the shock all over again in its fully glory. It plays out just as it did, every gory detail, every suffering second felt again and again until he wants to wake up but can't seem to.
He doesn't know which variation is worse.
No matter how bad it gets, what creative torture his brain comes up with, he forces himself to lie still afterwards. To not attract attention when he wakes even though his adrenaline is pumping, his heart is pounding and all he wants to do is flee.
The only small mercy is so far his issue seems to be avoiding detection by his bunk mates. Nobody else seems to wake or take notice of the Texan's nightly struggles. He is immensely thankful for that as he knows if they were discovered he would have had to endure some awkward discussion that would be nightmares in themselves.
Cerberus is the only one who seems to pick up on any sort of disturbance. The first time it happened the dog skittered across the floor and stood in front of Bravo 3's bed preparing to jump up. Sonny ruthlessly ignored the mutt, rolling over to face the other direction and turning his back in a clear sign that the dogs affection was unnecessary and unwanted.
Instead he lies in bed after each one and reminds himself that the kid is going to be alright. Walks himself through the next day's mission and what the plan is to catch the dead man walking who caused all this, who ever that jackhole is. He ignores the set of canine eyes that settle for watching him intently from across the room, gleaming brightly in the dark marking the location of Brock's bunk.
Sonny Quinn doesn't have nightmares.
Never has.
And never has learned any way to cope with them or make them go away.
Doesn't have any time for emotional weakness or namby pamby feelings shit, and he certainly doesn't need their canine hair missle to play at being a cuddly therapy dog.
Refuses to start any of that now. Now is the time for action. For strength and for payback.
So when they get pulled out and go back to the states he just stops sleeping altogether. It's a simple solution and once he is free from bunking with the team there is no one to keep tabs of his sleep schedule or lack thereof.
The only minor problem is that if he doesn't sleep, then he's awake.
And when he is awake, he's angry. Burning up from the inside out as surely as when his dreams trap him in the explosions.
Constant anger hums below the surface. It makes him itchy. Like there is always something prickling along his skin. A current of electricity that energizes him and makes him need to move, and do, and fight.
In some respects it's the same surge of energy that he feels during a good mission. The vibe of being connected and engaged in something bigger than him. His whole life snaps into focus and is crystal clear. In those moment's he knows he was born to do this, that there never was another path for him.
Most people assume Sonny Quinn has been destined for the military his whole life. Raised from a youngin to be the all American perfect soldier.
He doesn't bother to correct them. And just to perpetuate that impression when people ask him why he enlisted he tells them it was because of a dare.
He's not lying, per say.
Except really the dare was to take a gender studies class his second semester of college.
Because yes, Sonny Quinn went to college for one short year. Very few people in his life know he actually wanted to be a lawyer from a young age. A career decision born from watching Law and Order religiously every night with his Gran-Ninny while his mom worked the evening shift at the hospital. He envisioned himself kitted out in a dapour suit, all full of Texan charm, laying down the law and putting the bad guys in jail.
So into college he went, actually had a decent time of it and got along real well with his roommate. The same guy who got the notion that would be hilarious if Sonny signed up for a gender studies class. The joke was on him when Sonny took the dare and unknowingly stumbled into a mecca of available women. Sure they were a little touchy on some subjects but if you learned what to say and what not to say the opportunities were endless.
Right before midterms the professor showed them news footage of a Taliban attack on a girl's school in the Kandahar province. They discussed in depth the political, religious and cultural motivations that led the innocent girls to be slaughtered just for trying to get an education. Sonny didn't accept those explanations, didn't want to talk about the bigger issues and the difficulties facing women in general in countries like that. He wanted to jump on a plane and fly halfway around the world and dole out some good old fashioned southern justice. Longed to personally slaughter those animals who dared lay a hand on innocent children. He had ants in his pants that wouldn't go away. Sitting in class, spending years studying to pass the bar no longer seemed like an option. The world's injustices couldn't wait that long, he needed to take action, now.
The military was the best way he could figure to do that. Immediate and more sure than sitting in a courtroom and dealing with rules and legal uncertainties. His decision to drop out and enlist damn near broke his mama's heart, afraid she would lose him just like her husband. But Sonny has never looked back and there is nothing more satisfying for him than fighting on behalf of those who can't.
He relishes that feeling of purpose and vindication each time he suits up and goes out to do his job. He believes so strongly in the men to his left and right and in the ideals and values that they are fighting for and that conviction doesn't fade through a couple long deployments in treacherous sandboxes where a difference is made one bloody grain of sand at a time. It doesn't wash out in BUDS even as wave after wave of salty water goes up his nose and they fail to beat it out of him in SERE although God knows they try. He still feels that current thrum to life just as strongly and his place in the world is reaffirmed every time his phone makes that distinctive sound.
Sonny was raised in the bible belt, and of course learned his scripture verses like a good little boy, but they never really held any power or sway in his life. When he becomes a Seal a new set of verses takes root and finds the power over his soul that the new testament never could.
My loyalty to Country and Team is beyond reproach. I humbly serve as a guardian to my fellow Americans always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves. I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions. I voluntarily accept the inherent hazards of my profession, placing the welfare and security of others before my own.
In retrospect it was so obvious he was built for this life.
He sees the world different than most. It's black and its white, and there is no time for the grey.
There was that one awful psychology class he took as an entry level requirement and he vividly remembers all the snowflakes around him freaking out about this one experiment they studied. Milton or Milgram or Milner or something like that. Whatever the whack job's name was who made his test subjects believe they were shocking people with an increasingly dangerous electric shock all to test his theory that people will do what an authority figure tells them to, even at the supposed expense of another human life.
Turn the dial up and electrocute the person again… Sure.
Turn the dial up even higher even though they are screaming kind loudly… seems bad, but if you say so.
It turns out perceived authority is a powerful thing because a lot of people cranked the dial right up past the warning label that said "lethal dose."
For most of his classmates the experiment was deemed appalling and unethical and the results it achieved were startling and disturbing.
Sonny never had much of a problem with it personally.
I mean sure if they were actually electrocuting an innocent person that might have been a different story. The idea though, that a person can be made to take orders and do extreme things, even kill. That seemed pretty clear to him.
Obvious even. Nothing groundbreaking about it.
It's why the military works for him. He does what he's told, most of the time, doesn't overthink it,
doesn't dwell on the body total attached to the business end of his gun over the years. Just points it where he is told and pulls the trigger when he is told and trusts the smarter people of the world to make sure the targets are the right ones.
For him it's real simple "us" versus "them" and he is all in on the "us" side.
We train for war and fight to win. I stand ready to bring the full spectrum of combat power to bear in order to achieve my mission and the goals established by my country. The execution of my duties will be swift and violent when required yet guided by the very principles that I serve to defend.
When it's one of his guys or when it's someone who needs his protection, he can admit it affects him a bit differently. It's about the only times the lines blur a little bit.
His own moral code kicks in and demands retribution, justice and payback above all else.
He knows his reaction isn't always welcome and doesn't always make life easy for his teammates or his leaders.
Some of his previous COs have thrown around loaded words like "tailspin," "Obsessed" and "loose cannon".
Sonny doesn't really take offense although he might prefer "hyped up," "ruthless" and "Singularly focused." In the end it's all just semantics and in his mind there is nothing wrong with a little extra juice and a dogged determination to get the job done.
It only really becomes an issue when his plan for settling the score doesn't line up with his superiors. Because history has shown that he can't relax until it's settled to his standards. He doesn't believe in letting things go or letting other people handle it.
The problem is that is exactly what he is being told to do this time.
They get pulled off the line and sent back home to stand around twiddling their thumbs like they are the glorified wives club. He half expects to be asked to start baking casseroles any time now.
And with every day that passes he feels a little more on edge.
Like someone else has control of his dial and just keeps cranking it up. More restless energy. More trouble focusing. Less brain to mouth filter. More irrational desire to pummel the shit out of things.
He starts to actually feel his tentative hold on his sanity and his emotions start to slip out beyond his grasp and he doesn't know how to recapture it. He can't get the justice he needs to move on. Can't do anything but sit around and be an asshole apparently. He is antsy and insatiable, like a teething puppy who needs something new to pounce on every five seconds. He blows through bars and friends like they are disposable chew toys.
He knows he is ill humor to be around, vacillating unpredictably between sudden bouts of anger, at the kid, at whoever did this, at the situation, at the lack of response, at the doctors for not fixing things.
Just angry all around.
Sometimes he is content to sulk in peace, other times he lashes out, even he doesnt know which one is coming next.
His best and only solution is just to keep to himself, living by his mother's motto that if you can't say anything nice… shut the eff up. Okay, he may have paraphrased the last bit.
So he thoroughly ignores the disapproving looks from Jason.
Masterfully evades Ray's attempts to talk it through.
Pretends not to notice the way Brock is already avoiding him.
Tunes Trent out as a general practice not wanting to hear another damn thing about blood gases or urine output
Definitely ignores Stella when he sees her still lingering around. He knows his limits and that would be beyond his self control even at the best of times.
And he laughs loudly and dismissively when Blackburn finally pins him down and suggests he talk to someone. Cuz that went so well the last time. Sonny would love to know what notes the therapist made after their mandatory appointment where his patient showed up with a box of pizza and played games on his phone for an hour straight. Sonny had turned the volume off and offered to share the pizza so what more did anyone want from him.
No, he has his own therapy plans. Sees a therapist nightly, sometimes two or three. Although between the booze and the tips it probably costs him more than the exploitative rates most shrinks charge. Gives him more of a headache too.
When they touch down on American soil he is pretty much permanently drunk or hungover for the first 72 hours straight. In one of his somewhat sober moments Davis tries to intervene and in what is becoming typical Sonny fashion he lashes out.
He doesn't really know what he says but he remembers enough to know that he shouldn't have said it. Bottom line is he screws it up, like he deep down always knew he would. Doesn't know why he thought he could change. Why he thought life could be different for him. He doesn't know if he will be able to make it right again and that's just another thing to be frustrated and mad about. Another thing to add to the list of things to be angry about. His own inadequacy and the way he is handling this goes right to the top of it.
The words of the creed he lives by start to mock him. They float unwelcome into his mind after every poor decision and every lapse of judgement.
I serve with honor on and off the battlefield. The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance, sets me apart from other men.
He should be better. He should handle this better.
Instead he handles it worse. There are a few really bad moments where the dial cranks up higher than it should and the rage overwhelms him. The world blurs around him in a haze of booze, adrenaline and self destructive behavior and when things become clear again an undetermined amount of time later he is left with only foggy memories at best. He has to try to figure out what was a dream and what was reality, and more importantly where he has ended up and what the damage is.
If he's lucky he's on one of his teammates' couches and just has to deal with the looks of disappointment in the morning.
Other times it's less clear and more of a disconcerting puzzle to piece together. One missing chunk of time was punctuated by coming back to awareness to find his shirt and hands covered in blood. He feared he may have done something irreparably stupid until he found a reflective surface and realized that the source was just his own nose. He isn't sure who popped him one but there is a good chance he probably deserved it.
He resolves to be less of an idiot, but that willpower only lasts until after his next shift at the hospital and then this morning he woke up at a bus shelter with no shirt and fleeting memories of strippers, muff divers, and violently attacking a whack a mole machine with his bare hands.
So much for that plan.
The hours he spends at the hospital are pretty much always his undoing. Sonny just isn't enough of a coward to duck them altogether as much as he wants to.
He fills his shifts, not a second more, and sometimes less if others come early.
When he is there he feels like a wild animal with its leg stuck in a steel trap. Every movement, every thought, every second is agonizing but he can't escape, he has to stay in place. He would happily gnaw his own leg off it it would get him out of there.
Tonight is an extra trying test. The hospital is eerily quiet overnight, and there is minimal activity to help keep his mind distracted.
This is the first time he has ended up here at night, usually he's been covering the part of the afternoon that conveniently coincides with his somewhat recovery from his activities the night before and before they recommence for the next evening.
Tonight however, Ray insisted Jason go to Emma's recital on the pretense that the team had the night covered. Sonny is pretty sure this is an elaborate ploy by Ray both to keep Sonny out of the bar, and to try to get Jason to actually sleep in his own bed for the first time since they have been back.
Bravo 2 can certainly try but Sonny fully expects Jason will be back to relieve him soon after the recital ends. They will both be happier with that arrangement and Ray doesn't have to be any the wiser.
Unfortunately it's not soon enough. He is going stir crazy while he waits and isn't sure he can last the next couple hours here.
He tries to think of every annoying thing the kid ever did. And there were a lot of them, especially at the beginning. Focuses on every time Bravo 6 got a little too big for his britches or pulled down stupid stunt in an effort to stay mad rather than leave room for any other emotions.
It doesn't help though.
When he looks at Clay on the bed all he can see is himself telling the kid to be all in.
All in for Bravo.
All in to be a hero.
All in to going outside the bar.
All in to getting blown up.
All in.
The words taunt him.
They remind him of the part he played in Clay's decision and the inescapable fact that he should have known better. That he should have stepped in because he better than anyone knew where Clay's head has been at over the last couple months since Stella and Mexico. He should have seen the overcorrection, recognized it as a rebound. Clay had gone out and made Bravo his next fling and Sonny failed to realize it was a problem until it was too late.
The shame bubbles up to the surface along with the desperate need to do something to alleviate the growing discomfort. He needs to be at a bar right now taking the edge off, turning his brain off and letting that restless energy run unchecked in a series of stupid decisions until it tires him out. But he can't he is trapped. Held prisoner. Doomed to have to sit here. And just like a wounded animal he lashes out irrationally at the only thing nearby.
"You couldn't just get it over with could you. Always gotta be the drama with you. Can't just go with the flow."
His voice rises, gaining steam emotions pouring out in ways they shouldn't.
"You'are an idjit you know that... Just had to be the hero. Had to show everyone up and go back outside. Well look where it got you. Look where it got you. I'm done with this... "
He storms out of the room, and goes to find a bar.
Screw the kid and screw this.
Kid can't even die properly.
It takes 113 minutes, 5 blocks and exactly two double whiskeys too long for the surge of rage he is riding to subside enough to allow a hint of guilt to creep in and common sense to return. He quickly begins to feel like an even bigger crap human than before for leaving the kid alone.
Stubborn shit would probably pick now to die to make his point.
The thought doubles him over and he barely makes it out the back door before he is emptying his guts out in the alley.
When his stomach has emptied itself of his most recent bad decisions his wretches give way to sobs and then into gut wrenching soul shaking screams of anger and he lashes out onto the wall. This isn't fair. Clay didn't deserve this. They were drinking at a bar for christsakes.
His outburst has about as much stamina as he usually does. And as much as he bitches and bullshits otherwise, he really is more of a sprinter than an endurance kind of guy.
Within a minute or two he ends up in a heap on the ground, gasping for air, choking back the last few sobs with tears leaving trails down his cheeks and snot trickling down his beard.
He is an embarassing, disgusting mess of a human being.
This has to be some kind of low point. Davis would look at him right now and run for the hills.
Maybe it's a good thing he was already such an ass and sent her doing exactly that a few days earlier.
He is ashamed on every level. Of how he has been acting. Of leaving. Of his outburst. But for the first time for the first time since that bomb interrupted his conversation almost a week ago the permanent surge of energy and anger is spent. It's gone, replaced by a bone deep weariness and resignation about the reality of the situation.
It goes against everything he normally stands for but for some reason he feels at peace with it.
Never out of the fight. Except maybe this time there isn't anything left to fight except himself. Maybe there is no making this one right. It will never be right and maybe he is going to have to find some way to learn to live with that.
The nice thing about dive bars is that no one questions much and a person rushing out the back door is a common occurrence. There are no well meaning interruptions, no one checking in on him, he is able to sit in silence for a minute while he regains his composure and then he finally sets about peeling himself off the disgusting ground. The bruises on his bloodied knuckles make themselves known as he pushes to get up but he resolutely ignores them and gets moving, returning to the hospital as fast as his hungover ass can manage.
As he speed walks down the hallway he tries to look calm and collected or at least less out of breath and frantic then he actually is. It wouldn't do to catch the attention of a nurse or have a run in with base security and get caught up trying to explain why he is such a wreck.
No, right now all he needs to do is get back to Clay.
Only Clay isn't alone.
Stella jumps when he enters, fear and guilt making her look like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. She stutters out a hasty apology "I… Sorry, I...he was alone and I figured I would fill in until someone got back"
Maybe it's the relief of finding the kid still alive, maybe it's guilt about leaving in the first place, or the lack of sleep and real food in his system, or the four day booze induced hangover, or the emotional drainage from his little outburst, or maybe all of the above but the next words that come out of his mouth are surprising to both of them when he just mutters
"s'fine. I shouldn't have left."
Stella is caught off guard, clearly not sure what to make of the response given their previous encounters. Eventually she finally offers a tentative "me neither."
He doesn't know why it's funny. It really isn't.
But it also kind of is. It's painfully true on both accounts and it pulls a wry laugh out of him.
"No I don't reckon you should have."
There's a warmer tone and a hell of a lot less judgement in his response then there would have been a few hours ago. Funny the perspective time can bring now that he basically did the same thing. He bailed out on Clay when things got hard and his friend needed him the most just as surely as she did. At least Stella knew she couldn't handle it and told Spenser that upfront.
Stella's eyes drift down to his bloody hands and he tucks them in his pockets without a word. She wisely doesn't comment, and even more wisely seems to decide not to push her luck and leave before Sonny's good will runs out.
Meanwhile Sonny makes his way to the bed and leans over Clay and offers an apology for his ears only, "Sorry Kid, that was a real dick move."
Clays response is shockingly obvious and quick in coming. An obnoxious shrill alarm rings out in the quiet room, and then a few seconds later another goes off and joins the cacophony. Sonny can't begin to pinpoint which one is indicating a what. Where the hell is Sawyer when you need him. It takes the third monitor, the only one he can actually read because it's just the heartbeat one, to start beeping before it really hits him.
Oh no.
No you don't kid.
You don't get to do this. Not now…. Not like this.
Just because Sonny found some smidgeon of acceptance about it, doesn't mean he was actually ready for it to happen
He doesn't know what to do. For a brief irrational moment he starts looking for some sort of bleeding to stem or debates trying to start CPR. There must be something he can do. Except deep down past the panic the recently rediscovered logical part of his brain admonishes him that any sort of measures would just be forestalling the inevitable.
He looks up helplessly at the door, at Stella who is frozen in place halfway in the room and halfway out.
She just gapes at him and shakes her head wordlessly, equally helpless, equally lost. Her face screws up in tears and then she turns and hightails it down the hallway.
He can't find it in himself to hate her.
Especially because a large part of him wants to do the same.
But he takes a deep breath and stands his ground
He remembers his brothers, Clay included, standing faithfully by as he slowly drowned inside that infernal the tube. Remembers the comfort it brought him to know that he wasn't alone even at the end and even separated by a few inches of metal.
"Lord let me not prove unworthy of my brother's"
Sonny closes his eyes and prays the only prayer worth a damn in his book, asking for strength in this moment.
He takes a seat in the chair next to the bed and grabs Clay's hand, chick flick moment be damned. He holds on tight and tunes out the clamour of the machines with the same focus he uses in battle to ignore the bullets and chaos flying around him.
"It's alright Blondie, I gotcha. You hang on tight to me, it's going to be alright…
He has to stop to clear his throat but doggedly continues.
….There's nothing to it really, nothing to worry about. And there's a lot of good people waiting for you on the other side, they are gonna take care of you for us till we can again. Don't you be causing any trouble or grey hairs like you did for us."
This time he is interrupted by a noise at the door announcing the return of Stella with doctors and nurses in tow. The medical staff hurries to the bed and crowds in close but Sonny refuses to relinquish his spot, refuses to let go.
The room goes quiet as someone silences the ringing alarms one by one. There is an implied finality that confirms what he feared.
It's time.
There is nothing left to do and no way left to fight,
The certainty is almost welcome after so much ambiguity and it helps him make peace with things in this moment and just focus on being there for Clay.
The words come unbidden from deep within him and he recites them calmly and effortlessly, determined to ensure there is all the dignity and honour Clay deserves as they walk this last leg together.
My Nation expects me to be physically harder and mentally stronger than my enemies. If knocked down, I will get back up, every time. I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates and to accomplish our mission. I am never out of the fight.
Brave men have fought and died building the proud tradition and feared reputation that I am bound to uphold. In the worst of conditions, the legacy of my teammates steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed. I will not fail.
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