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#Artemus Gordon
celestial-alignment · 4 months
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IT'S FINALLY STREAMING! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!
Right now it's on Amazon Prime, for those of you who have it.
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that-whump-guy · 1 year
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Jim and Artie being best friends
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fandomfixation2 · 1 month
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Not sure if this is the best way to do this, but I’m looking for some fanfic recommendations on the following -
DS9 - Garak/Bashir
Wild Wild West - Artie/Jim
I have only just found out about AO3, but I literally don’t know where to start, so if anyone has any recs I would be eternally grateful.
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Bob Conrad I love you. I love that you chose to make that face and move your hands like that. Were you ever a gay icon? You're a gay icon in my heart.
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nade2308 · 1 year
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marcia1 · 6 months
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James West & Artemus Gordon “The Wild Wild West”
“Soldier”
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radarsteddybear · 1 year
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Artemus Gordon would have a love/hate relationship with the Sherlock Holmes books but he and Holmes would absolutely be besties
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pursuitoftruth · 1 year
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thinking about ~ * them * ~
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chronivore · 2 years
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punwolf · 2 years
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Night of the Mysterious Traveler (Chapter 1)
A young, modern werewolf finds herself lost in the Wild Wild West. She hates westerns, horses, tiny towns and men in tight pants who can’t keep their lips to themselves. Trapped in a personal hell, she copes with Jim West and Artemus Gordon’s shenanigans until she can escape. Recycle immediately decides the setting sucks. The fist fights are fun. The guns are great, and Artie is worth a second look. Too bad it can never work out. Can it?This is classic World of Darkness blended with the 1960’s TV series Wild Wild West. Knowledge of the language used in Werewolf: the Apocalypse is useful but not necessary to enjoy the story. Updates twice weekly on Monday and Thursdsay.
Complete work - it just needs to be posted as I have time.
Constructive criticism/concrit is not welcome.
I only write occasionally. It's strictly for fun and gone through a beta reader. This was a stray idea which wouldn't leave me alone so I decided to write it out.
Horses?  Of course, there were horses. Just like the old stories, there were four to herald the apocalypse. Giant, smelly, clattering animals pulling a rolling death trap that desperately needed to marry a shock absorber. They were hitting every rut in the dirt track, jostling the interior and causing her to bounce off a man dressed in blue.
Never again would Recycle complain about paved American roads, including rural paths so full of holes they looked like they’d been blasted by the Blitz. Crammed inside a stagecoach made a midnight bus ride look like paradise. 
Then again, she was a werewolf trapped inside a rolling wooden box with two unsuspecting humans and pulled by animals who thought there was a wolf behind them. 
I lost my pack, I don’t know where I am. I have no clue where this thing is taking me. I’m supposed to find someone named Artemus Gordon and give him time-sensitive information. I have a destination but no idea where to find it on a map. I also don’t know what this person looks like. What else could possibly go wrong?She sighed, dropping her eyes to the toes of her boots. 
I could be back in Wolf Home.
~
Wolf Home had been a nightmare.  Her pack, harried by gunfire, tempted with poison bait, run to exhaustion by hunting dogs fought for survival from the moment their paws landed in the lush forest. Unlike many of her tribe, Recycle didn’t mind taking the true wolf form called Lupus, but they had been trapped in it. None of them were able to shift into their human or towering Crinos battle forms. Within the first thirty minutes of the hell Realm she developed a new appreciation for thumbs.
Their Gifts had almost been nullified to the point it had been a struggle to do the simplest things  Skills they’d relied on for years, including her ability to heal injuries, were unexpectedly unreliable. Without their “magic,” they were little better off than a wild wolf unable to understand a simple concept like turning a key in a lock. 
Ironically, the “lesson” that deposited her and her pack in Wolf Home had come from an ally.  Ambushed and near death, she made a desperate plea for help to the Monkey King. Consummate trickster, the wily spirit saved their collective skins, but escape to the spiritual realm came at a price, one that tossed them from the proverbial frying pan into the fire.
One by one, they started to vanish like an app transition, beginning with their judge and peacekeeper until only she was left and she didn’t know why. 
She was born under a crescent moon, a Theurge, one wise in the ways of the spirits and their world, one with more in depth understanding of the spiritual realm. The Umbra operated by unique rules but Wolf Home operated far differently than any other realm she’d visited before.  The inability to change form or use Gifts left her confused, but the disappearance of her pack left her alone, and a lone werewolf wasn’t a good thing.
She’d heard stories of werewolves who outlived their packs. Left adrift, some sank into a supernatural depression, but the Garou were at war. People died. Friends were slaughtered in ways which would haunt the survivors into their next life. Like any soldier, all of them knew they’d eventually lose someone. Her kind didn’t die of old age. Most expired gruesomely in battle. It was the way, even for a city loving Glass Walker like herself.
Having lived just under thirty years, she buried people more closely bonded to her than brothers or sisters. Two still screamed in her nightmares. Survivors grieved, but life always went on. It had to, but she held onto the belief that the others weren’t necessarily dead. Her pack vanished, but she hadn’t seen them die. They could still be alive; Gaia help her, she wasn’t ready to give up on them or herself. Giving her life for her pack or doing good in the world was a fulfilling end. Fading away unknown and unmourned was worse than death.
She found a way to save her own hide, resorting to street smarts and cleverness. She didn’t know the rules of the Realm, so she created another escape route.
The Umbra existed beside the material world, but it wasn’t a simple mirror image. It was so vast it would never be fully mapped, and there were layers upon layers. Like trying to leave the cosmos, it baffled the mind, and most places had their own guidelines. What worked in one didn't in the next. In one place you fought your way free. In another you answered riddles, climbed a ladder, completed a noble quest, fulfilled a favor or walked out. It constantly changed and grew, expanding and shrinking.  No one knew everything.  
There were rumors of a realm accessible through any television screen in the Umbra that lead, appropriately, to the Television Realm.  There, Garou could do everything from accompany Frodo to Mount Doom, ride with Batman, enjoy a sitcom, or visit Hogwarts. Getting out was usually as simple as getting to the end of the movie or episode.
Gaia was merciful enough to provide her a gateway out of Wolf Home within a week. 
She found a camp and crept silently toward it, the old sweat and cheap beer of the hunters easy to avoid. They would have filled her full of bullets and mounted her head on the wall, but she didn’t give them the chance.  With her life dependent on stealth, she crouched silently in shadow, barely breathing. They boasted loudly through liquid belches about the wolves they killed, skinned, and made into trophies. Recycle clenched her lupine teeth together and kept a growl in check. No sound. She could make no sound.
When they finally passed out, she eased her muzzle through the tent flap just enough to see the portable television they brought with them. The screen was nearly as small as an original Gameboy, but it was a TV. She fixed her eyes on it and reached with her inner spirit, letting the intangible part of her being flow toward it as if she was trying to step into the material world.
The midnight forest of Wolf Home exploded into blazing hot sun, dust, and she physically staggered backward. Immediately dropping her wolf shape, she wiped eyes damp from relief. She was human again. A faded and worn T-Rex stretched across her chest with the words Jurassic Park under it. Athletic runners' legs filled designer jeans. Her laughter had a hysterical edge to it as she clutched a handful of shoulder length brown hair with expensive highlights. Deflated, she sat on the side of a dirt road, too relieved to wonder about the setting. She was still alive. She was free of deadly iron traps, shotgun shells, poison and helicopters trying to gun her down.
Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked around. “I’m here, but where is ‘here?’” She assumed it wasn’t a sitcom and was grateful there weren’t any xenomorphs or space marines. No orcs, but she could be part of almost anything. CSI Las Vegas? The terrain didn’t feel like a match for the desert, but it might have been fun trying to solve a case with the staff on one of those series. Too bad.
The air smelled cleaner than she was used to, and it lacked the familiar, comforting thrum of a city. Contrary to what other tribes believed, Glass Walkers knew the cities were living, thriving, breathing entities. The machines, technology, and people were its life blood, and all of them were unique. Here, she felt no connection to a population, either foreign or familiar. “Whatever this is, I’m out in the middle of nowhere.” There wasn’t a sign of power lines, billboards or vehicles.
Four paws were the prudent way of travel, but she shuddered to consider going wolf so soon. With a shrug, she picked a direction and started walking. If it was the Television Realm, she suspected something would happen quickly. Movies and series kept the pace going. If a car came along she might get an idea of the time frame by the make and model.
“At least I’m not on the Titanic or the S.S. Minnow.”
She walked on two legs until sunset, then relented to the necessity of superior lupine senses. Miles ground away beneath her paws until she caught scents strong enough to follow. Casting around, her nose drew her toward the smell of cooked food, sweaty horse, sweatier people, leather, metal, gun oil and bad coffee. 
Oh no. No no no. Am I in a western or something around the Civil War era? It would explain why there’s no technology and the air is so clean.
Wolf paws circled a small camp of men, clearly hearing their conversations over a half mile away. With only the stars and campfire to illuminate the night, scant cover was more than adequate for her to eavesdrop without anyone noticing.
“Still got a good fifty miles to Willow Springs.”
“That means we got some time.”
“He ain’t going to talk.” “Give me the knife. There’s more than one way to loosen a man’s tongue.”
Ugly laughter cut the night. “Or lose it.”
Recycle lowered herself to her haunches, both ears trained on the humans. That doesn’t sound good. I should probably do something, but what? If I go charging in all big and hairy things could get dicey. The ability to shift into a nine foot tall monster built of rage, claws, fur and fangs was an advantage, but it dissolved when a mob screamed “werewolf.” The Garou hid, carefully keeping anonymity of their small numbers. A sighting could easily turn to torches, pitchforks, silver bullets, and no pack to help. Monsters had enemies. Smart monsters kept their heads down so they weren’t shot off.
The camp was large by the bodies she could hear and smell moving around. Wolf born Garou, the lupus, would have naturally been able to give an exact number, probably age, general health and specific location of each human. Her senses would never be that finely tuned, but she judged their number small enough that if she truly wanted to wipe it out, she could have. Horses would be driven into a state of fatal panic. Humans didn’t react much better, and the war form was meant for killing. Natural regeneration shrugged off bullets, and her unique abilities with technology gave her a special way with firearms. If she didn’t want them to fire, they wouldn’t.
The familiar metallic aroma of blood hit her muzzle, rolling along the roof of her mouth to her tongue. Her ears tipped, swiveling instinctively to catch torturous sounds of a gagged human, something heavy hitting flesh, and bones snapping deep inside muscle and tissue. Someone clumsily tried to muffle a scream of animal pain. Others guffawed at the misery.
“Just kill him and we won’t have to drag him along with us any more.”
“Boss might want us to find out who else found out about this.”
“Does it matter? We know who he was going to meet. He’s not in town, yet, but someone will take care of it. We already sent word and the boss will wait it out.”
Recycle wasn’t a stranger to killing. Death chased at the heels of all Garou, but torture teetered on a razor fine line; crossing it put more than morality at stake. Like maggots burrowing through a corpse, it invited alien spirits inside humans or Garou. Victims were oblivious at first, but if the sickness was left unattended they turned into something  still alive but less than human. Staying upwind, Recycle skirted out of the firelight’s reach. Lupine night vision was many times superior to her human eyes. She lost the ability to see red and green, but she could clearly pick out the number of people moving around and what they were wearing. The over abundance of cowboy hats, horses and wagons gave it away. 
I’m in a western. Wonderful. Just wonderful. I need clothes.
They put out a watch. He sat with his back to the fire, and the man provided her with a target. Charging in with maw foaming and bloody claws would get the job done, but Glass Walkers relied on finesse and subterfuge. Not getting shot was also high on her list, and she’d bet her own tail they were all well armed. The bullets wouldn’t be silver, but getting holes blown into her body always hurt. She needed a distraction, and no matter when her western was created, she knew a fast and easy one.
It would be almost too simple.
Pulling her t-shirt over her head, she stashed it with her personal belongings and bra beneath a low bush. Garou put less emphasis on nudity. Critical wounds, being slathered in gore from ear to ankle and having to change clothes to avoid arrest altered social expectations. Recycle saw pack mates naked many times. Lupus seldom understood the need for clothing and human born paid no attention. It wasn’t sexual for them, but for most of the human world?
Shaking her hair out around her shoulders, she put her best boob forward and slid into view. Using a soft whistle to draw attention, she poured all her slinky animal magnetism into a slow, sultry sway of her hips. She put one expensive running shoe in front of the other as she made her way toward the jerk on watch. Heels would have been better, but she doubted her feet would be on the menu.
Her quarry sat on a rock, rifle lazily cradled across his lap as he smoked a cigar. Recycle verged on drooling over the firearm almost as much as the unshaven lout ogled her. He practically slobbered when his brain registered what he saw. 
You want me, come and get me. 
She walked backward, making sure he had plenty to see as he sprang to his feet. Predictably, he made a grab for her. She ducked and eluded him, luring him away like any of a thousand cautionary folk tales about beautiful things which became monsters when you finally caught them.
Easy money.
He thought he got exactly what he thought he wanted and grabbed her arms. Fur sprouted under his fingers and the slender arms of a woman expanded into the size of small trees. The monster emerged. 
He would have screamed as shrill and mindlessly a rabbit in a snare if she hadn’t slapped her paw-hand over his face, smothering the sound. In Crinos, her battle form, her head was that of a nightmarishly huge wolf. From the hips down she was also canine. Above the waist she had a broad chest, humanoid arms, and hands tipped with ripping talons. Her quarry writhed, scrabbling useless human nails over her thickly furred arms.
The lines between what was virtuous and what wasn’t blurred in Recycle’s world. A living monster, she had to straddle the broad “gray” between black and white. Not this time. Men who laughed while they tortured could expect no mercy. Eyes burning with inner rage stared down at a man who hung like a rag doll between her thick fingers. She yanked his neck around. His body jerked convulsively several times, then went still.
Returning to human form was difficult. She wanted to rage, going through the camp and gutting enemies. If she did that, she might snuff out what little life was left in the captive she heard being tortured. Her objective was rescue, not slaughter.
Breathing slowly and deliberately, she returned to her human form and finished stripping. Dispassionately, she took the clothes, a small utilitarian knife and some money from the corpse. The fact everything miraculously fit, including the boots, cleared her head. 
Right. I’m in the Television Realm. Of course it fits. Unless it’s Die Hard the clothes usually do.
She took a few minutes to secure the new garments to her various forms with a basic magical rite. Any city Garou worth a dollar learned how to keep from ripping out of their clothes with every change. It was difficult enough to navigate through a city without being stark nude all the time.
Another transformation into battle form gave her the physical power to easily move the creep’s corpse. While she was deciding what to do with it, she tuned her ears to the conversations and drunken snores wafting through the camp. Her lupine muzzle stretched into a terrifying grin. Grabbing his body by the front of the old-fashioned buttoned “long johns'' underwear, she hurled it directly toward the fire. It worked in Lord of the Rings, didn’t it? There’s nothing like a little psychological warfare to distract people.
The body landed with a satisfying thud. Confusion reigned for several seconds with colorful profanity, but they rallied quickly, organizing themselves to look for who or what attacked them. As tempting as it was to let a few find her so they could be obliterated, she again quelled the impulse. 
Maybe later.
Her limbs felt heavy and the notion of rest tempted her. It was exhausting to cycle through so many transformations in a short time. Although the change itself happened naturally, painlessly and without effort, forcing calm took its toll.  Her golden eyes slid shut while she focused on deep breathing. Picturing an overstuffed couch, a giant HD TV, and a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, she coaxed herself back to a human body.
With the help of a Gift granted by a chameleon spirit, no one noticed the strange woman in familiar clothes crouched among the shadows. Men stomped past, spitting anger and promising retribution to something in the night. The victim was left alone in the panic. They’d realize their mistake soon, but she hoped to have him loose before then. Slipping around to the tree the man was tied to, she began to cut the bonds with her new knife. “Be still,” she hissed close to his ear. “I’m a friend. I’m going to cut you free and get you out of here.”
A barely audible wheeze got through swollen, broken lips. “Too late.”
“Don’t say that,” she urged, but her stomach sank. One of her jobs was pack healer, and she’d brought Garou or humans back from the brink of death many times. This man was vomiting blood. His face was a ruin which barely looked human, and there were more things broken in his body than most people knew existed. She could mend tissue, blood and bone, restoring him physically, but his spirit already accepted its fate. He’d crossed a threshold where no amount of healing could help unless he willed it. “Hold on,” she begged, but she didn’t know him. She couldn’t call on the names of people he loved or things he wouldn’t want left undone.
“Take the papers….” A leather folder lay open and forgotten near the fire. “This…” When his hands were free, he pried a wedding ring from his finger and thrust it into her hands. “I’m--” he gagged on blood and barely managed to get his name through. “Walter. Mason.”
“Your wife,” Recycle insisted frantically, half supporting his frame as he slumped into her. “You can see your wife again! Hang on, we can fix this – ”
“Artemus Gordon,” he croaked with the last of his reserves. “Take it to… Artemus Gordon. New Athens. Your word!”
Oh Gaia, she didn’t want to lose him. She knew the fear of dying lost, alone, and forgotten. “I--” Life was leaving him and she could watch helplessly. She tried healing him in spite of the futility, but her tears fell on his lifeless shoulder. “I promise,” she finally sniffled, and gently laid him on the ground.
Scooping up the papers, she put the ring in her pocket and gripped the leather case in her teeth. Her spine bowed and pushed her to all fours as her body reshaped itself into a wolf. She ran. Once again eluding men with guns, she ran until miles were between herself and the shadow of death.
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katb357 · 2 years
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Sicktember 7: “A Cry for Attention”
Jim West/Artemus Gordon/Wild Wild West
Jim would be glad to get back to Washington. Arte was driving him crazy with his grumbling about their current situation, as if it was HIS fault the Wanderer was under repairs. They were traveling from Kansas City to Washington on a regular train. You would think the man had never ridden on a regular rail car before.
Jim was very good at tuning out the sounds around him and sleeping wherever he was. The Army had taught him that. Arte apparently hadn’t honed those skills. Either that, or it was just his high-strung nature that kept him awake more than Jim. They were seated across from a woman and her three children, who were taking advantage of their mother’s exhausted state to play up and down the narrow aisle between the car’s seats. They weren’t really being bad, just energetic.
Suddenly the mother awoke and began to whimper, which rapidly turned into a low keening as her eyes grew wide. Arte rose quickly and leaned over her, realizing as he did, that she was heavily pregnant, a state which her skirts had hidden unless one was close to her.
Arte suspected the sounds she was making were a cry for attention, and he was right. “Ma’am, I’m a doctor. Is the baby coming?”
She nodded her head as she began to pant. “It’s not time yet. Do you have laudanum?”
Arte shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t ma’am. My name is Dr. Artemus Gordon. What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Peter Jameson. My first name is Lucinda.” Meanwhile, Arte was doing an external examination and had come to the conclusion that he would be delivering this baby soon.
Arte turned and nudged Jim awake. Like all military men, Jim was awake and aware instantly.
Arte told him what was happening, “Find out where we can take her for some privacy, because unless I miss my guess, that baby isn’t going to wait much longer…maybe an hour or so. We need towels and I could use some back up. I’d like to get her moved before her water breaks.”
Jim nodded and practically sprinted to the door to track down the conductor. In a short time, they had Mrs. Jameson moved into the conductor’s quarters, and thankfully, the birth was proceeding normally, although it was much too late for her to receive the requested laudanum, even though Jim had managed to track down some from a fellow passenger.
Besides, Arte was loath to use it, as he had a theory that the medicine would transfer to the babe when suckling. It wouldn’t be good for either mother or child, though his theory was not a popular one.
In any event, Mrs. Jameson gave birth to a healthy baby girl with whom she was well pleased, and Artemus had to admit to Jim he was glad they had been on that particular train. After all, it wasn’t every day one became a god father, was it?
The End
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celestial-alignment · 5 months
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that-whump-guy · 1 year
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Jim and Artie, The Wild Wild West
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kangelane · 8 months
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The Death Stare
Summary: How much are James West and Artemus Gordon willing to sacrifice, in order to prevent a stolen experimental lethal virus to fall into the wrong hands?
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”WEST!” Thomas Gabriel was intently scanning the area, gun clasped firmly in his right hand and the left arm keeping a solid grip around Artemus’ neck – cowardly using the agent as a human shield. A trail of blood originated from Artie’s right eyebrow, the gaze from the normally warm brown eyes was slightly dimmed and unfocused following the hard blow he had previously received. Artie’s hands were now cuffed in front of him, but despite this restrain, he still weakly struggled to pry the arm away from his throat to get free, but the other man did not even flinch at his futile attempts. The chains kept clanking, as Gordon was harshly steered around on wobbly legs by the armed goon, down the main street passing through the heart of the abandoned eerily town, constantly moving jerkily, making it near impossible to shoot the armed man without first hitting the agent.
”I KNOW YOU’RE SOMEWHERE IN THE CLOSE PROXIMITY, MR WEST! IF YOU DON’T COME OUT THIS INSTANT, AND WILLINGLY HAND OVER THE VIRUS TO ME, YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR MR GORDON’S IMMINENT SUFFERING AND DEATH!”
”JIM, DON’T-”, Artemus begun, but the muzzle was immediately moved from his temple to below his cheek, forcing his head to lean back, silencing him with an accompanied gentle hush.
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Read the full story here:
…or here:
~ Kangelane_Wild Wild West 🤓📚📖
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Please, Wild Wild West. Why are you like this
Jim fighting someone while straddling a banister for absolutely no reason
Finishing the fight and deciding to slide down it like a child
The jaunty little leg cross at the landing
Artie turning around, looking at Jim’s come-hither pose, and very aggressively licking his lips
Artie’s hand slotting neatly under Jim’s elbow because you need to be touching to have a conversation, clearly
The unerring, unblinking eye contact Jim is making 
Like. They just beat up two servants. They watched the actual bad guy step through a door less than two yards away, and they’re like, ‘okay, but like, quick foolish nonsense and make out break, right’
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nade2308 · 1 year
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Hot. Damn.
🥵
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