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Log Title: After the Fall
Log setting: Walker’s house
Log Cast:
Ben
Glass
Holly
Trace
EvilJason
Jean-Batiste
Jordan
Kathy
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What happened? Jordan... fell. Yeah, he fell down the stairs. Pleather thigh-high go-go boots with platform soles can be *so* hard to walk in sometimes, you know. So here's the scene when everyone needs to wake up, rush out, and see what the hell this loud racket is. Glass is closest to the top of the stairs, staring down in surprise. His words are, "Trace! Jesus!" Jason's just below him, and he gives a frightening giggle. Frightening, perhaps, because it's so like his usual giggle. At the bottom of the stairs lies a thoroughly unconscious Jordan, blood just now start to trickle from a wound at the back of his head. Further injuries include a shoulder broken in three places and a concussion. At the bottom of the steps, and surely Ain would see this, Trace is hunched over Jordan with his fingers twined up in the prettyboy's silky, black hair. He releases it and starts backing away, one slow step, then another, shaking his head with something that looks like denial. And that's where you all may find us.
Tumblings and exclamations, heavy sounds and a general hubub bring a barefooted Ben dashing down the hall from the bathroom, looking around quickly for the source of the disturbance. For a moment all he can see is Trace's hair and the stricken look on the boy's face, and he practically leaps the rest of the way toward the scene, stopping still and shocked when he sees a collapsed Jordan shattered over the bottom stairs. Instantly he's ghostly pale. "Jesus. What happened?"
Glass slips on down the stairs now, moving fast and scowling, cigarette forgotten in his hand. He darts around Jason, trying not to jostle or even brush against the redheaded boy, and probably failing. He glances at Trace as he starts to kneel down beside the fallen prettyboy, an odd look.
The commotion is enough to roust Holly upstairs; what the...? She mumbles something unintelligible, swiping a hand at the long hair that's been weaving a black net over her cheek. Pushing herself up on the waterbed she blinks. "Where'd evrabody go..?" All she sees is Jason on the stairs. Ermf. Must be late. "What's goin' on..?" Confusion.
The blood is already starting to trickle from the aggrevated gash at the back of Jordan's skull. Trace stares at it fixedly as he backs away, trembling violently now. Regret? Right now it's just a war in the boy's mind, and neither side's won yet. Ben puts himself in the middle of things, and he says horsely, breathlessly, "H-he fell..." He looks up at the professor, and something fierce floods his eyes, something unrecognizable. "He fell." Despite the shaking, that second insistance is firmer, almost challenging. You want to say otherwise, *Angel*?
Actually, Jason's quite expecting the whole world to come rushing past him to the aid of the fragile thing that just... /dropped/ onto the hard stairs. He doesn't seem to mind terribly as Glass rushes past him on the narrow stairs. Content to just stand there and peer down at the mess on the floor. Oh, that's /gotta/ hurt, Bob. And here come the expected reinforcments. Jason has his stunned look ready as Ben rushes out and demands to know what happened. "He jus'... tripped," he murmurs numbly, as if still shocked by what just happened. A glance to Glass. "He tripped 'n fell..." And then he lifts his head and looks back over his shoulder to Walker, rising from the bed, "Ben's friend tripped 'n fell down the stairs." A glance back down at the growing pool of blood beneath the boi's head. And then back to Walker again as he states, simply, "I think he might be hurt." Thank you, Captain Obvious. Those who know what /really/ happened might find it rather scary how easily Jason lies about this. Like he had the story planned the entire time. His glee is carefully hidden. It's all.. shock. Amazement.
Jean-Batiste hears commotion through the door as he steps up to the porch - nothing new, that. Walker's place seems to be one of two things, these days - deathly silent, or full of commotion. Still, -this- flavour of commotion wasn't one he was predicting. His steps falter to a halt and he stands there, hand still on the doorknob, barely inside the threshold. Jordan's here. So much for his fantasies of the flit being sold to a Persian porn ring. But the demon stairs have struck again, and with a much sharper bite this time. He'll have to polish them in reward later. "Shit," he comments eloquently, finally stepping in the rest of the way and closing the door behind himself.
Benjamin can lay blame later. Blame's not important when there's someone -- anyone -- lying bleeding on the floor. He crouches next to the fallen boy, touching his forehead carefully. "Jordan? Jordan, you hear me?" Blood? Oh, Jesus. Ben's first-aid knowledge doesn't go quite this far. And his shoulder at that angle... it can't be good. Quiet control and direction takes over immediately. "Trace, call 911. Jason? Wake Holly up and get him to get the first-aid kit." Doesn't look up from Jordan at all. "Jordan?"
Glass pulls Jordan's lids back and peers into his eyes, one after the other. He shrugs a little and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and presses the little swath of silk against the gash in that dark-haired head. "He fell," says Doug quietly, glancing up at Ben. He looks down again at the fallen boy and adds, "He needs to go to the hospital now. Somebody ought to call the amulance, and somebody else should go around and put all the paraphenalia away." He speaks softly and a little slowly, as if it's no big deal.
Jason blinks down to Ben as he relays directions, then turns back towards Walker (guess he's the stair-telegraph-guy now). "Where's the first-aid kit? Ben wants to know..."
Jordan isn't stirring just yet, even at the sound of his name, drifting in through thick fog and thicker confusion. Pulling back his lids doesn't phase him either. For the time being he's retreated to a place without pain.
Call. Calling requires a phone. For a moment Trace does actually have that disoriented moment, wondering what 911's number is, but it clicks into place and he nods shakily. Slowly he turns and sees Batiste standing there. Oh God. He forgets about his orders for a moment, looking at the blonde boy with confusion and too much emotion pulling him every which way. "Bat..." he gasps softly. "How long you been there?" He looks back over his shoulder bewilderedly and comments, "Jordan's... hurt."
Unaware of Jason's deception but quite aware of how treacherous those stairs can be Holly slides from the bed looking more irritated than anything. Doesn't know how dire the situation might be. Until the relay. First-aid..? Can't be that bad. A quick peep shows nothing but spiral and so it's to the drawer under the bed for the medical kit stashed there. Tugging it out it's then toted to and down the stairs, though it doesn't make it far. 'Bout halfway before he sees the heap of Jordan on the floor. And the blood. Ohhhh... shit. Blink. Hop-hop, socked feet hit the polished wood floor with a slip-slide, first-aid kit held out toward Ben as he was the one Jason said was looking for it. "Somebody call th' doctah?" Breathless. Strange the way he's staring at the pool of spreading blood too. Like he doesn't quite know what the stuff is that threatens to stain the floor.
Jean-Batiste's sandals slap quietly on the floor as he approaches the locus of the commotion and peers down at it. "Huh," he comments, making a bit of a face at the shattered shoulder - that doesn't look very good at all. Shoulder-casts are so -ugly-, too. "Huh," he repeats, glancing up at Trace. "You okay?" he asks, crossing to the blue-haired boy and giving him a terse braid-rustle, already glancing back at Jordan. "Concussion, broken bones..." he murmurs, looking to Glass for confirmation. "Don't move him, and keep his shoulder still?" He looks at Trace again, then murmurs, "I'll call the ambulance." Rather calm about it all, expression vague. Distanced.
Glass nods, "Yeah," he says to Batiste, "Just leave him there until the paramedics get here, or they'll yell at us." He sits back on his heels and picks up his cigarette from where he'd dropped it on the bottom stair. He keeps his handkerchief pressed against that gash, and it rapidly becomes soaked.
Benjamin looks sharply up at Trace and Batiste. "Do it. Just do it, -now-." He doesn't raise his voice, just hardens and sharpens it. Back to Jordan quickly, taking the first aid kit from Holly. Out comes a few pads of gauze a moment later, and he reaches behind Jordan's head to position them just under Glass's hand and handkerchief. "Here. I'll take over as long as these last." Likely Holly's expression would worry him even more, but he just pats her absently on the knee.
Jason, alone at the top of the stairs and watching the rest of you scurry about in a panicked frenzy down there (or lay in a pool of your own blood), is absolutely entertained. Well... except for the part where Bat wanders in. He's not supposed to be here! Even though Jason was 'fighting' for his honor. Heh. Okay, Jason can't withold the grin at that thought, but, fortunately, no one's looking at him. They're all looking at... Ooh,
Glass moves his now bloodied hand out from under Benjamin's. The professor is certainly welcom to take over this unpleasant task. Glass looks at his hand with mild distaste and has to be careful not to forget himself and wipe it on his coat as he drags on his cigarette. He gets to his feet and stands there, looking down at Ben for a moment, holding his bloody hand away from his body.
The rage has left him, and Trace finds himself with nothing to deal with but confusion, fear, and a mild case of shock. He looks at Ben blankly for a moment before trailing after Batiste with haunted eyes. Okay. Call people to come and make things better. People in... uniforms, with medical expertise, and... shit. He picks up his pace a little as he moves past the kitchen's entrance, fighting dizziness, and latches a hand onto Batiste's arm. "Wait," he whispers. "Wait. Will they be able to tell? Will they, will they examine him? Batiste.." A confused, rushed ramble that's more breath than voice. He looks like a frightened deer, standing so slender and rigid, with dark, liquid eyes.
Jean-Batiste gives Ben a vaguely withering look. Jordan's hurt, and Ben's in a flutter about it? Imagine. "It's just a head wound, they always bleed lots," he replies, sounding remarkably unconcerned. It's not like he's been shot or knifed, after all. He absently ruffles Trace's braids again, then starts in a quick pace for the phone, belatedly calling back over his shoulder, "Open his mouth, make sure he didn't bite through his tongue, too..." He sounds almost...hopeful? Bet it's hard to simper when you sound like a gobbling turkey on Novocaine. He reaches for the phone and looks back when Trace latches onto his arm, listening to the frightened words. "They'll be able to tell he fell down the stairs," he replies, even and soft. "It'd be real hard to manage those steps in those boots, I bet." And with that, he punches in the fateful numbers. 9-1-1.
A tiny, plaintive moan escapes the rentboy's painted lips, followed by a flinch, pinching brows and lips, as pain starts to register. Awareness floods him, unwanted and cruel, but it's a muddled, spinning reality that doesn't make any sense. Very suddenly his eyes blink wide and his mouth opens, but he's out of breath and what might have been a loud cry comes out a wounded squeak instead. Nothing focused in his eyes at all. His mouth forms a word, but again, no voice, and he pulls in a sharp gasp of air.
Jean-Batiste tucks the phone against his chin and leans up against the wall, looking back towards the Jordan-ruckus, listening to the phone ring. Welcome to New Orleans 911 Emergency Service. All our lines are busy right now, if you'd please- He blinks. Wow, that was quick. Straightening up a little, he murmurs into the phone, "There's been an accident at my friend's home. Someone's fallen down the stairs and broke their shoulder, and I think he's got a concussion, too. We need an ambulance, please."
Wow. Holly just can't seem to stop staring at that puddle. Should try to.. umm... clean it up or something? Maybe? But it's so... -there-. So red against golden-brown; glossy and bright. Like paint. Wow. Jordan's out cold she reminds herself, trying to pull out of the semi-detached lull. Not working; has to physically turn away to stop staring. But it's like those vicious car wrecks you pass and rubberneck; like Nim's pictures. Morbid but you can't help but stare. Revolting yet fascinating... okay. Time for a cigarette. She wanders into the living room, snitching one up from the box left for Ain earlier. Flick-flare-better. Nicotine. A glance to Bat; calling... fuck! The bong's in the living room! That's grabbed real quick and dashed into the kitchen. No good leaving that where medical workers might see it.
Jean-Batiste clears his throat softly and murmurs into the phone, "Six-thirteen Moss Street. It's a grey house with a wooden porch, and a Beetle parked outside."
"Shhh, Jordan, it's all right," Ben assures as soon as the dulled blue eyes open. It's not easy to ignore the whisperings and mutterings from Batiste and Trace, but he must focus on his responsibility here. "Don't move, kitten. I know it hurts but you can be strong. Don't move a muscle." The instructions keep coming along that same vein, making sure that the boy looks up at him. Focus, Jordan. He pauses his murmurs for a moment to say a bit more loudly, "Maybe you boys shouldn't be here when the ambulance arrives." He doesn't care whose fault it is right now. Officials and doctors who don't understand are generally bad things for his friends. This much, at least, he's learned.
Glass follows the dashing Holly into the kitchen. His demeanor is much more casual and he places his cigarette between his lips to turn the faucet on with his clean hand and hold his bloody one under the rushing water. Through his lips he murmurs to Holly, "Stick it in a cupboard or something, they're not allowed to look in places too small for a person to hide in, if they come in with the medics." Satisfied with his hand he turns the water off and looks around for a hand-towel, "Any more of that kinda shit around?"
How can he be so calm? Trace stares at Batiste, sagging against the counter now. Then people are running in and out of the kitchen, a swirl of action too quick to take in. The adrenalin rush has fled quickly, and he clings to the support before finally sliding down into a sitting position and leaning his back to it. Skinny arms curl around his legs, and he buries his face against his knees. His expression is hidden. Just a little huddle of arms and legs topped off with a blue dandelion mop of braids. He shivers but otherwise sits still, shutting everything out. Doug's questions go unanswered, Ben's suggestion unheard.
Jason gets a little frown up on his perch, rocking a little on the step. Hmm, this might backfire. Jordan gets soothing pets and comforts (and, a small, dreaded voice says, perhaps healing-time at the house). And the boys... they're asked to leave in a terse tone. Wait! Does Ben know? Jason peers down at the man's head from up above. How could he know? Did he see Trace? The frown deepens... Don't you SEE, Ben? Stop fawning over the bitch! He deserved it! Maybe now he won't be coming around, taking advantage of your kindness! Sure, Jason liked it. But he also did it for everyone else's sake! ... At least that's what he's telling himself right now.
Jean-Batiste murmurs into the phone, "He's bleeding pretty bad, but we've got a compress on it. Do you know how soon you'll be here?" Pause. "Okay. Thank you." He hangs up, and calls, "Paramedics are on the way." He crouches then, and puts an arm around Trace, squeezing bony shoulders. As he hugs, he looks up at Glass. "Anything left to clean up?"
The bong is thusly relegated to a once-upon-a-time unused cupboard, sharing space with crackers and othersuch food now. "Nah. Not layin' out. Downstairs." Upstairs? Not sure. Could be. "They won't want ta go upstairs will they?" While she's near the fridge she reaches into it and hauls out a bottled water, snapping it open for a deep drink. Gawd. This is -not- what she wanted to wake up to. There are worse things but this is definitely qualifiable as bad. Another notion. "They ain't gonna bring cops, ya think?" Genuine worry there.
Glass shrugs a little, drying off his hand. He drags on his cigarette again and speaks on smoke, "I don't know. I didn't see anything out. I'll take a look around." He starts out of the kitchen after first scanning the room with mellow dark eyes. As he passes Ben and the fallen Jordan he speaks more loudly, "Nobody go anyplace, unless you got a warrent out on you or something. He fell down the stairs. We're all cool. So be cool." He looks into the living room, eyes searching the shelves.
You hear a knock on the door. (from Moss Street -- Bayou St. John)
Finally able to get out more than breathy gasps, Jordan whimpers, "Anthony... Anthony..." He isn't focusing. He can't focus. Logic and ration have been stripped away and he all he knows is that he /hurts/ and he doesn't know what's going on. Underwater thoughts. A slow, growing panic. "D-d-don't let them... are they going t-to pump my stomach again?" A half-sob rattles out of him, and he doesn't listen to Ben's words and tries to shift, reaches up the arm of his good shoulder to grasp at a shape before him (which is Ben). "Anthony?"
No more time for questions or answers; there's knocking at the door. So Holly goes to open the door.
Benjamin distinctly notes the lack of streetkids scurrying in the background, even though his attention is focused on keeping Jordan from bleeding all over the floor. Fine, whatever. If they think they can be cool they're welcome to try and fool whoever. "Shhh, honey, shh." He grips the boy's hand firmly, squeezing tight and reassuring. "It's all right. They're going to fix you up all right, OK? Don't move. Don't move, honey, it's all right. I'll be right here." He'll ignore the glares and looks, and he'll take on Jordan's own method of dealing with things: nothing outside exists.
Kathy comes in with some paramedics.
Kathy looks around for someone on the floor.
Holly flutters back from the door to the living room doorway, eyes darting down the hall. "Right down there," she points needlessly.
Benjamin is crouched at the bottom of the stairs, holding gauze to the bleeding back of Jordan's head. The Austin-Powers-girl-clad boy is flung out over the last few of the spiral stairs, one shoulder bent badly.
Trace shudders as he feels an arm slip around him, and nearly tugs away, but peeks up timidly and leans closer when he sees that it's just Bat. "W-we should get out of here.." he says very softly, and his voice hitches. Definitely spooked.
Glass is standing in the entryway to the livingroom, watching the paramedics stream in.
Kathy frowns slightly, and crouches next to Jordan. One of the paramedics has a board, and a neck brace with him.
Jean-Batiste stays in a crouch by Trace's side, hugging the smaller boy with one arm, the other balanced across his knees. He stays in the kitchen, well out of the way of milling paramedics, trying to keep his friend calm. He starts picking at his bottom lip, plucking dead skin off, and watches the localized chaos. "It's okay," he murmurs softly to Trace. "They're just paramedics. It'll be okay. C'mon." He tries to coax his friend into standing up.
Kathy checks out Jordan's shoulder with light fingertips while the Paramedics get him onto the board, and secure his head to it.
Ahhh, Paramedics. Usually they're kinda cute. But right now... Jason grimaces from his perch up on one of the top stairs. Leaning forward to rest his chin on folded arms, he watches as they descend upon the stricken girl-boi. Yes, please, clean that up, would you? It's staining the floor.
The paramedics lift on one, two, three.. and lift Jordan into the air on the board. Kathy looks around. "Is someone going to come in the ambulance?" Eyes light on Jason. "Mr. Riley?"
Benjamin looks up as there's suddenly... people nearby. People who finally seem to care that there's a bleeding kid clutching one of his hands in a deathgrip. He fixes Kathy with a blank look for a couple of moments, then nods a little to her. "His name's Jordan," the man explains after the wierd silence. "He fell down the stairs and he's not real coherent." Carefully he tries to tug his hand from Jordan's grasp so the professionals can do their job, and he won't be in the way. "I'll go. Just let me get my shoes," he offers.
Are they going to take Jordan to the hospital now? Holly hovers - something she's always excelled at - large emerald eyes following the cluster of people down the hall. Now this is more the distance she's used to being from an accident. Not up close and in person. Though that was... hmm? The paramedic lady in comfortab... er. -Sensible- shoes knows Jason? Small world, yes?
Jordan gives a strangled cry as he's moved, and squirms, trying to break free of the bonds. His thrashing falls still again when it finally sinks in that it only hurts worse when he does. Another small sob, makeup streaking green and black rivers down to touch his temples as he says again, "Anthony... Mom!" Confusion. /Nothing/ makes sense.
Kathy flicks her eyes to Jordan. "Jordan, please lie still." her voice is soft, and perhaps comforting to someone in need of a mom.
Glass puts out his cigarette and watches the paramedics. Jordan's squirming makes him wince briefly with vicariously experienced pain, but he's not about to volunteer for a ride in the ambulance.
The paramedics take Jordan to the ambulance. Kathy waits for Ben.
Benjamin hunts around the entryway for a couple of moments, muttering to himself. Lots of profanity, more than he ever, ever uses. But his tone and expression are as mild as ever. "Holly? Would you call Anthony please? The number's on my dresser somewhere. Red cocktail napkin." There's the blasted buggers. Ben steps into his Birks which he finds under the hall table. His black t-shirt and flannels look awful but the hospital's surely seen worse.
Trace seems pretty unwilling to get up right now, and huddles up more, shoulders hunched stubbornly, when Batiste tries to get him to rise. "No... no, I wanna stay here," he whispers in a small child-voice.
Kathy nods once to Jason, and follows the paramedics.
Kathy opens the front door and steps outside.
Jean-Batiste looks away from the doorway, now that the paramedics have carted Jordan off, and settles down cross-legged beside Trace. "Okay. We can stay here," he murmurs, hugging the blue-haired boy to his shoulder again. He returns to picking skin off his bottom lip, buried nervousness finally surfacing.
"Who's Anthony?" Holly blinks. She's real current, no? Who's the guy and why's she calling him? A look to Trace. Hm? More confusion. "Ya don' have ta go... ya can stay here with me..." Which is apparently what she's doing. Somebody's got to clean the mess in the hall, after all. and Bat's volunteering to stay too.
Kathy pages Benjamin and you: Jordan is going to go to the hospital, but not rp it. If you wanna rp with me, ben, I'm game, or else you can just come back "after "
"His lover," Ben calls over his shoulder, and is then out the door.
Benjamin opens the front door and steps outside.
Jean-Batiste makes a face at the door. "His sugar-daddy," he helpfully corrects, more than a little tartly.
Oh, well. That clears -that- up. His lover. Great. Holly has to be the one to call the lover and explain to some soon-to-be-distraught stranger that his boifriend is laid up in the hospital. Call her selfish but she doesn't want to explain it. 'Hey. You don't know me but your lover just pitched head over heels down my stairs and split his skull. I was sleeping so I can't tell you much more than he's in the hospital.' Erk. Sigh. "Bat, clean that, please." Instructions in passing and she starts up the stairs, socked footsteps light on the steps.
"Where's Jason...?" Trace whispers, dropping his chin down to rest on his folded arms, eyes pensive and bright. "I gotta... what're... we gonna do?" He looks at Batiste. "Jordan's head'll get better."
Glass sighs softly and drifts across the hallway to Trace and Batiste. Dark eyes look down at the blue-headed one and he smiles a little, "Yeah, sure it will get better. We don't have to do anything at all." He shrugs, brightens his smile some, "Sure you don't wanna get up, lie on the couch or somethin'?"
Jean-Batiste wrinkles his nose. -He- has to clean the blood up? He sighs quietly and squeezes Trace close a final time, then starts to stand up. "C'mon," he murmurs gently to Trace. "Why don't you go sit with Glass for a bit? It'll be okay. I'll find Jason, he'll be around here somewhere..." He heads for the sink, fixing up a half-filled bucket of hot water, heavy on the disinfectant.
Jason didn't seem particularly phased by seeing Kathy. Just a look of recognition and a tight smirk, and then back to his watching place. Not that there's anything to watch. Everyone's gone who's going and all that there is left is a pool of blood that Walker doesn't want to deal with. Scootch. Jason moves over to let Walker pass on his way up. But... damn. There's GOT to be more excitement to this... Jason gets a small frown as he thinks. Something's... nagging him.
No no no, Glass is missing the point. His head will get *better*. This is BAD. Because then... Trace sighs shakenly and starts to pick himself up slowly, holding the counter for support. Finally he's up and wanders out towards the living room, a meandering path that's ultimately couch-wards, but does sway around and detour a bit. "Fireheart..?" he calls, but a glance around doesn't reveal the boy. He slumps down onto it, sinking bonelessly into the cushions.
Glass follows after Trace, looking befuddled at the boy's expression. His comment was supposed to be comforting. Shrugging it off, he says, "Who is that little ribbon-wrapped prick anyway?"
A sour-sounding snort comes from Batiste as he steps into the hallway between living room and kitchen, carrying a washrag and the pail of hot, disinfected water. "That's Jordan, the one cozying up to Ben." He smacks his mouth quietly - did he -really- hear Ben addressing the flit with lovey-dovey endearments? How nauseating. He turns towards the bloodstains, and looks up the staircase, spotting Jason at the very top. "Hey," he murmurs simply, watching the redhead for several long seconds before crouching down to start the cleanup detail.
Back down the stairs comes Walker, changed and looking no less piqued than when he went up. But at least talking to Anthony is done with. With Jordan's fall went every hope of having a pleasant night's sleep. Unless the Valium's cracked into or something. Fingers brush Jason's curls on the way down and he skirts the cleanup crew of one, cigarette smoke trailing after.
Trace flicks out his tongue to wet dry lips and sits up a little to watch Batiste work. His eyes flicker over to Walker and he tries a tiny smile before letting it fall away. He looks back to the blood, then over at Glass. A shy, nervous expression. You saw. I know you did. He licks his lips again and averts his eyes, murmuring, "Do you.... do you need help, Batiste?"
Jason smiles slightly down to Batiste when he looks up, a flash of... satisfaction? going through his eyes for a very brief moment. The air of the cat who ate the canary is rather distinct in that instant. But it's dispelled as Walker walks past. At the touch, Jason looks up and gives another sort of soft smile. A 'sorry you have to be up and around, Ms. Windholm, we can clean up' polite sort of smile. Sympathetic even. He watches her descend the stairs again, thoughts going... Oh GOD he wants to gloat right now.
Oh wait... Jason saw his bluecapped friend's expression as he slammed bitchie's face into the ground... There's a soft call from above, "Hey, Trace... Come up here a sec..."
Glass smiles at Walker, quite pleasantly, "Ah, ami. I thought you were going back to bed." He catches Trace's glance and his night-black eyes meet hazel ones. Yeah, I saw. His smile is reassuring, somewhat. Soft and closed-lipped.
The happily clueless-to-what's-transpired Walker trots into the kitchen. Ignorance can be bliss. The cabinet creaks open and shuts again and he returns, bong in hand once more. Where's the stash? Throne pocket. In the black-cased puck. D'oh. Well at least it was hidden from sight. So he journeys into the living room after the bud, water slooshing in the smoking implement. "Nope," he returns to Glass as he drops bonelessly into his favorite chair. "Had ta call Anthony and got changed." The last... well, that's obvious. Didn't bother to take out the braids, though. Puck in hand he starts loading the waterpipe. "Want some?"
Through the wet scrubbing sounds of blood being removed from floortiles and wonderfully merciless stairs comes Batiste's voice: "No, I'm okay, Trace. You just take it easy, okay?" He frowns at one of the bannister-rails. Blood up -there-? He must have really bounced down these stairs. He looks up at Jason again, unspoken questions in his eyes. Which one of you did it? Did he scream all the way down? Will you explain it all to me later?
Trace swallows. Fireheart. Yeah, he had wanted to talk to Jason too. He slowly picks himself up off the couch, still a little shaky, and catches Doug's eye briefly. It does reassure him a little, and he smiles weakly. Pink flashes through his mind for a moment, pink from an envelope. Okay. Okay, he'll trust. He moves over towards the steps with his eyes on the floor. Hazel lingers on crimson for a moment, and he reaches out and brushes blonde braids before passing the sullied spot on the floor all together and heading up the steps slowly. Eyes down. He doesn't look up at the redhead until he's seated himself on the step Jason's crouched upon.
Glass watches Walker drop into that so-comfortable looking chair. "Yeah, please," he replies, then glances back at the foot of the stairs. He hesitates for a time, measuring his guilt against his greed. He continues as if there had been no pause, "But I guess I should help Bat out first." He steps over to the scene of the cleanup operation.
And the Queen sits alone. Well, alone with a bong. And a Godiva who - attracted by the scent of the initial hit - is currently trotting over to the displeased chorus of disturbed kittens. Dope-kitty. Walker happily makes room for the blue-grey princess in the chair, curling with her and giving the soft head a skritch. No guilt here. Of any sort.
You /may/ think you're sitting next to Jason, Trace. But you're not. This is /Evil/Jason remember? "I think he dropped his purse," he murmurs, not looking up at Trace at first. But then he slowly raises his eyes to the other boy, that wicked, dark glimmering deep within them remeniscent of those times before. It's a glimmer that means Jason's not all there right now. "It went /so/ well with his dress, too..." He absently gestures to the purse which lays forgotten down below, in the stair well. And then back to Trace with a lopsided smile. "Well... anyhow. /That/ went well, don't you think? I'm not quite sure he likes us much." All this, by the way, is in low murmurs. Just muted tones that can be heard from above.
"Hm. What happened to my handkerchief?" Doug asks as he surveys the bloodstain. A shrug and he starts off to the kitchen without making a move to help. "Guess it doesn't matter," he goes on, speaking more to himself than anyone else by the sound of it. He comes back in a few moments with a sponge and he crouches down on his haunches near Batiste. Wipe up the bloodstreaks left behind by the mop, wring out the sponge, wipe again.
Purse. Yes, there behind the curved steps, back out of the way in the shadows, is Jordan's colour-coordinated purse. Batiste doesn't notice it until he finishes wiping down the stairs and sits down on the second-to-last one to look over the remaining bloodstains with a sigh. He rubs his hands together - they're cold and mottled-looking - then rubs at the back of his neck, twisting his head from side to side. Pause. What's this. "He dropped his purse..." he notes quietly, reaching over to snag the thing off the floor. His eyes find Glass first: what should we do with it? He handles it uncertainly, as if worried he's leaving his fingerprints on it.
Glass looks up from his task at Batiste, then at the purse. "Cool," he says quietly, his expression offering no advice as to how the purse should be treated. He glances at the wall out of the corner of his eye, the wall that has a Walker on the other side. It's his house, his friend, his house and his friend's purse on the floor. Doug shrugs a very minimal shrug and wipes up the last long streak of blood from the floor. There are still a few speckles here and there, and he dabs at them once he's rinsed the sponge again.
A little laugh escapes Trace's lips, soft enough perhaps not to carry unless you're listening closely. He flickers his gaze down to the purse, but then Bat's there, taking care of it. Back to EvilJason. "I think... you're right. But we don't like him much either..." He rubs at his face a moment, then brings his hands up through his hair, shoving braids back. "He... I can still hear the sound..." He shakes his head in denial and whispers, "I... when I had his hair tangled up in my hands, when... it felt....." Another strained giggle. "I think I'm goin' crazy." He lets go of his braids and curls his arms around his chest. The released frazzled ropes spring back to fall against his cheeks.
Lifting the grey cat Walker rises to pad across the room, flicking the radio on to drown out the silence in the sitting room. Icky quiet. Alternative music rolls out of the standing speakers, blanketing the room with mellow night tunes. Then back to the chair. Comfort is a great thing and so easily come about with the throne. Up comes the footrest, down goes the back, onto tummy goes Godiva and everyone's satisfied. Drifting into quiet thought; they always say tragedy comes in threes. What's number three?
Oh, sure. Don't give him any advice. Batiste looks at Glass for a few seconds more, then wads the purse up a little in his hands and twists on the step. "Hey," he calls up softly to the pair at the top of the staircase. "Catch." He lobs the purse up underhand to them, (hopefully) easy to catch. It's like AD&D, sort of. Their right to loot, not his. He gets down on hands and knees, and helps Glass search out the final flecks of blood, wiping in long, shiny arcs.
Glass tosses his sponge in the bucket and looks up at Trace and Jason on the stairs. His expression is thoughful, distant fear and yearning mixing in the back of his eyes. The expression of a man looking at the mouth of a cave and half thinking of how he might like to see what lies within, and how many ways he could get lost and die in the dark. Except it's not possible, the notion is only half-entertained and lacks any real power. After a moment Doug looks away, back to Batiste, "Wanna see if Walker's still got some smoke?"
Bat looks up in time to see Jason grinning crookedly to the rather frazzled-looking Trace. He just 'mms' and nods a little to Trace's words. Only he's not trying to make the boy feel much better. Cause, geez... The call draws his attention away, though and Jason looks down just in time to catch the flying purse. Oh look, loot!
Okay, the grin to Trace now is genuine. "If I find any tampons in here," he murmurs playfully, "I'm gonna be sick." Doesn't matter that the person to whom the purse belongs was just carted off to the hospital for some nasty-looking injuries. He pulls the thing open and peers inside, then shoves a hand in to delve around. After a moment, he pulls something out and looks to Trace, offering it. "Mint?"
Benjamin opens the front door and steps inside.
At least Ben isn't stuck at the hospital all night long. The door is opened again after perhaps an hour, maybe more, maybe less. He's rather lost track by this time. Inside he wanders, back home and back to friends. He pauses not too far inside to step out of his sandals, and make for the kitchen and fridge.
Trace reaches out and plucks the mint out of the redhead's fingers, peering at it for a moment. Then, what the hell, he untwists the plastic, which rattles quietly, and once the striped candy is out he pops it into his mouth. The wrapper gets tucked back into his pocket; no need to make *more* of a mess tonight. A glance back to Jason. Okay. So he's not going to get any kind of reassurance. Maybe he'd been looking to be told that it was alright to feel elated at something so twisted, but that's impossible, he decides. You're supposed to feel terrible about it. So he can't quite work up anything like smugness as he goes back into a huddle, arms gently embracing himself as he looks back down towards the steps. "Should we go back downstairs...?" A lifeless question.
Curled in the chair both Walker - changed and in comfy clothes - and Godiva have by now succumbed to lazy stoned-and-weary sleep, the latter curled on the performers chest as he sleeps stretched in the reclined throne. Bong tucked next to him he's the picture of dreamless slumber. First three shows in an evening, then Ain being sick (well, that wasn't rough.. that was mother henning), then the talk with Ligeia... didn't mention that, did he? And now a spilt Jordan on the floor, carted away to the hospital. S'been a long day.
Jean-Batiste just sits on the floor for a while, under the pretense of looking for any remaining traces of blood. They're all long since cleaned up, though. He looks over at Glass again, and smiles at him in a pinched, lopsided way, then pushes himself up to his feet and offers a hand out to the older boy. "I want some of that bong..." he decides softly. He looks over as the door opens, and watches Ben step out of his sandals and head for the kitchen. Mmn. And he's got to go in there, too.
Benjamin tugs the refrigerator door open and stands there for a moment or two, looking over the selections. Alcohol suddenly doesn't look that appetizing nor very necessary. And he really isn't that thirsty, anyway. So what made him go to the fridge? He sniffs and rubs at tired eyes as he lets the door fall closed again, turning to wander back out again. Ah, but there's a Batiste in the way, which he needs to stop for. "Hey. Everyone all right?"
Glass nods to Batiste and starts into the living room, pausing to speak to Ben's retreating back, "Hey. How did it go?" The question is quiet and politely concerned, but he doesn't wait for the reply, just goes on in to take a seat on the floor before Walker, "There any more in that?" he asks, indicating the bong in the sleepy man's possession with a tilt of his head.
Trace wants reassurance... And a small part of Jason probably wants to give it to him. But it can't, because the rest of him is revelling in these dark emotions that he hasn't let out to rampage for awhile now. What other ways can things be screwed up tonight, hmmmm? Honestly, it's dangerous to be around the kid right now, cause, well, if the past proves to be any insight, anyone could be the next target. But at least he's occupied for the moment. Jordan's purse is rifled through some more. A tube of lube and a couple of condoms tossed back over his shoulder with a snort and a roll of the eyes. Makeup, tissues, more makeup.. all go into a pile behind him. But, wait... What's this? Certainly not facial powder in that little snuff box. Jason dips his finger in and tastes it. Wince. Eww, yup, bitter. A smirk is passed over to the huddled Trace. "Ooh, big surprise." Toss. Jason goes back to dig in, but pauses, then pulls out a stuffed change-purse. Only there's no change. Flip. Green paper. Niiiiice green paper. Awwwwwwyeah. A sly grin to his partner in crime (if not enthusiasm). "Well-earned, if you ask me," Jason murmurs with quiet glee.
Jean-Batiste stares at Ben for a long while (thanks to more vile RL cropping up) and doesn't say anything. Maybe he's trying to find an answer that's truthful without being -too- goading. He plucks at a raw spot on his bottom lip and nods. "Yeah," he finally murmurs. "Everyone's okay." He slips past the ex-professor, heading for the sink to dump out the bloodstained water. "They ask you many questions?" he calls Ben-wards. That's where his concerns lie. Are the cops going to come sniffing here because of Jordan?
Benjamin shakes his head, quietly, stepping aside for Batiste to do his watered-down-grisly work. "Anthony showed up, and Doctor McDiarmid didn't ask any further when I said he fell. She'll let it be but I can't vouch for Jordan or Anthony." Bitterness, there. He's pretty sure it's the fault of -someone- in the house that Jordan has a broken shoulder, but everyone's biggest concern is whether or not the house will get busted. "But usually people don't remember what happened right before they hit their heads like that. So chances are you're safe anyway." That said, he moves out of the kitchen quickly and moves toward the living room to check on Walker, avoiding glances and questions.
"Totally well earned," Trace agrees easily enough with a drudged up half-grin, but peers back over his shoulder, towards the pile of Jordan's personals. "What was that..?" he asks, and he surely doesn't mean the makeup or tissues. But he *does* remember what he traded Jordan long ago in exchange for the party clothes for Hell. Really fine junk of the snortable variety. How could he forget? Only *trashjunkies* mainline, those were the little bastard's words. His eyes flash a moment, and he wets his lips .
Jean-Batiste raises eyebrows at Ben's back as he walks away. -He's- safe? He didn't show up until afterwards. Unfortunately, he wasn't part of the malicious mischief. So, dagger for dagger, he murmurs, "Yeah. Safe as I can be. I didn't use gloves to clean up." Who knows what lurks in a rentboy's bloodstream, after all. He pours out the water and rinses the sink out twice, using lots of soap.
Jason pauses in the middle of counting out the cash, head tilting as he catches snippets of Ben's words downstairs. Uh-oh, Ben doesn't seem to think everything's kosher in the Walkerland Boy's Home. Then the money gets rolled up into stuffed into one pocket and Trace gets a reply that's not really thought about in the simple word, "Tweak." He's on his feet then and moving down the stairs, the dark thing in his eyes being carefully hidden away again. He pauses halfway down and gives Ben a hurt-scared look, bright eyes wide and chin barely starting to quiver, "You... you think it wasn' an accident? That one... one a' /us/ did it?" Hurt and betrayal are in his voice. Emotions that... seem genuine.
Glass stays where he's at, leaning against the side of Walker's chair now. He's relieved the sleeping regent of his bong and is engaged in making good use of it, and staying well out of the conversation.
Benjamin pauses at the entry to the living room. Harsh comments from Batiste and a general resentment make it difficult to keep even moving. He nods a little toward Glass once he's assured that Walker is sleeping peacefully, but says nothing. Upstairs. Upstairs, peace and solitude. Sleeping alone perhaps, but it's better than veild accusation. Ben turns back for the stairs, only to be met by an innocent, lip-quivering Jason.
Gawd. "Look. You said he fell. You saw it. I didn't. I'm taking you at your word. None of you seemed particularly concerned that Jordan was hurt so I -had- to take care of him." His edges are beginning to visibly frazzle. "Just be glad he'll be out of your damn hair for awhile, all right? Now excuse me, I'd like to go to bed."
"Pity poor -kitten- didn't bust his face. Wonder how his sugar-daddy'd like him then," Batiste mutters in the kitchen, where he's taking an inordinately long time to dry his hands off. Kitten. He makes a face at himself. What an endearment. Kitten with feline distemper, maybe.
Glass, made silent by his held breath even if he did want to say something (which seems unlikely) holds up the bong toward Benjamin. The expression in his eyes is sympathetic. Don't be upset. Stay. Relax. He doesn't seem to really expect Benjamin to do so, but he tries.
Tweak? That's speed, right? Trace puzzles, certain he's heard the word at Keats, but he's never had much to do with the stuff. He's laughably ignorant about ups, truth be told. Jason's dramatics earn a long, glance, almost admiring, because he's so terrible at lying himself and here's someone pulling it off perfectly. He shakes his head in faint amazement, thinking it's probably best that he hung around up here and didn't make the redhead's efforts all in vain with his own open-book demeanor. But then Ben's coming to him... Whoops, hide the 'tweak' or whatever it is; it quickly gets stuffed into a pocket and he turns and takes a few descending steps.
Who are you and what'd you do with Ben??? Jason blinks a moment, taken aback by Ben's obvious bare nerves for a moment. It's clear that the man doesn't believe that things are the way people are saying they are. Then again, there's no real reason why Ben's /got/ to believe. But still, the whole thing sets off Jason's instinct to lie for no other reason than to just lie. "He /did/ fall! He tripped! Those big shoes... we were exchangin' words 'n he wasn' lookin' where he was goin' 'n..." He makes a motion with his hands, looking distraught. "I didn' know what ta /do/. Trace tried ta help 'im 'n..." He flounders helplessly for words (which he's not actually at a loss for, but it makes for good effect). "Was jus'... /shocked/, I think..."
Benjamin holds up both hands to ward Jason off, his voice sharp and testy. "Look! I don't care -what- happened before he fell. I don't care about what happened before I came in to find him bleeding with a broken shoulder on the ground." A dark, accusatory glance shoots around at all those visible, and at the doorway of the kitchen where Batiste is. So very many hard, angry things he could say right now, things bubbling just under the surface and ready to spew forth in a vile river of vitriol. But that isn't Ben. He looks back up at Jason. "You don't have to explain. I believe whatever the three of you say because I don't believe you'd lie to me." Short and truncated, he steps up onto the stairs, turning sidelong to try and brush past Jason and get up toward the bedroom.
Jason gets brushed aside, eyes wide with distress as they look up at the man. "But we were jus' arguin'," he tries again, but it's clear he's not going to get through to the man anymore tonight. "Tripped... didn' know what ta do..." he mumbles, voice drifting off. But Ben's already got his back to him, on his way up the stairs. So Jason drops the act and looks up past the man to Trace, shrugging his shoulders once with a 'hey, I did what I can' sort of expression.
Jean-Batiste looks towards the staircase as he finally exits the kitchen and heads for the livingroom. "I don't know what's worse," he mutter-murmurs to Glass as he nears He Who Holds The Bong. "The fact that Ben thinks he's worth knowing, or the fact Ben believes anything he says." He frowns a little, half-malicious, half-sad. If only he was a better person, he wouldn't be imagining the day he finally gets to tell Ben 'I told you so'.
Glass looks up at Batiste, pleasure in his eyes. Company. Somebody leaving the argument. Yes, good. He blows a smoke ring and holds the bong up to Bat, smiling an inviting smile and holding the rest of his hit. Please. Sit beside me, relax, laugh.
Trace flattens himself against the rail to allow Ben passage, but he'll still have that pile of Jordan's stuff to step over. If Jason couldn't convince him, he's not even going to try, and just averts his eyes with guilt. He continues on down the steps, past Jason if the boy's still just standing there, and moves over to find a place on the couch. "Hi.." he smiles timidly at the two, leaning his cheek against the back cushions.
Benjamin pauses for a moment, visibly stung by Batiste's words. He pauses just before the landing, gripping the rail and looking down at the pile of Jordan's things. You know? There can only be one explanation. He must be wrong. He must be awfully, horribly wrong. It doesn't -feel- like he is, but if he wasn't, would he be so shunned right now? Shunned for trying to do the right thing when no one else would. Or at least that's how it appears to him. Defeated, he steps over Jordan's things and disappears into the darkness of the top floor.
Benjamin heads up the steep, winding stairs.
Bong. Smoke. Relaxation. Yes, -please-. Batiste smiles weakly at Glass, forcing the expression upon a face that's much more comfortable scowling and smirking right now, and takes the bong. A nice long, slow, deep hit, handing the bong over to Trace with an airless version of the smile he just gave Glass.
Nobody's ever figured out that Trace doesn't know how to hit a bong without making an ass of himself, and no one's bothered to teach him yet, so he just sighs at it longingly and holds it out to Glass.
Glass speaks on a cloud of fragrant smoke, "What, you don't want any?" Despite the chagrinned tone he's still reaching for the bong again, and he goes on, speaking in a slightly slurred, amused and stoned way, "Man. That was heavy. And what a fucking mooch. Poor fuckin' Ben." He looks at Batiste, then Trace again, his eyes worried, "I'm not that bad, I hope. I mean, you can be a mooch without being a snot about it."
Anyhow, Jason doesn't join the three of you. And he doesn't follow Ben upstairs. And he doesn't pass you to go to the door. But if anyone goes looking for him, he's not in the house anymore. Just vanished. How very Jason.
"Well, I do, I just.." Trace murmurs plaintively, and then sighs. "Nevermind." He leans his cheek down against Batiste's shoulder, nestling comfortably close. "Yer so different, Doug. Don't ever compare yerself t'that bitch... Ever."
Glass laughs and tries to hand the bong back, "So hit it, then." He giggles, "Passing it on as if I'm not already stoned. I'd think you were gettin' sweet on me if I didn't know better."
Jean-Batiste considers the bong as he exhales, then eyes up Trace, the source of the previous longing sigh, and murmurs, "We could shotgun? It's kinda close and personal, though..." He grins a little at Trace, his face relaxing enough to allow a crooked-warm expression. A few seconds later, he's looking back at Glass, shaking his head. "No way," he murmurs. "No way. Don't compare yourself to him. You're good to us, and you're our friend. You're not just out to use us." He reaches out and touches Glass's arm for a second, just to reinforce the words both he and Trace are saying.
Glass sighs, contentedly, and leans back against the couch, still holding the bong out to Trace. He smiles warmly and fuzzily at Batiste's touch and seems content at the warmth and comfort of hisfriendship with the two. Seems like so many hours ago that he came here, looking for this very thing. Finally it's here.
And so the evil implement of humiliation is back in Trace's hands. He looks at it, then looks up with a flush stinging his cheeks, glancing between the two of you. Batiste gets a wry grin and he comments with a hint of mirth, "It'd hafta be some'a the stuff Jason gave me fer that, I think." But it's a momentary distraction and he looks back to the bong and finally blurts, "It's not.. it's jest... I don' know how t'hit it, okay?" He laughs with embarrassment and a twing of bitterness. "Some junkie I am. Can't even hit a fuckin' bong." He flinches slightly after he says the words, as though they slipped out without his permission. Not a word to use lightly.
Jean-Batiste frowns a little, concern furrowing up his dark brows. "Hey..." he murmurs, wrapping an arm 'round Trace's shoulders to give him a warm, sideways hug. "It's okay. You're just..." How to make a joke of this? Hmm. -Hmm-. Better not to try, he decides, and holds his hand out for the bong. "Give it a try?" he invites. "Just take a little breath, that's all, the smoke isn't slowed down by anything." Compared to pipes and joints, at least.
"You're going to laugh," Trace points out dubiously. "Jason laughed. He laughed his ass off."
Glass chuckles and reaches out to pat Trace on the shoulder. He giggles, "Well, I'm gonna laugh now, no matter what, 'cause I'm all stoned." A bright grin lights his face, "But it doesn't mean I don't love you. Hit that fuckin' thing. Kick it's ass."
Jean-Batiste tips his head to the side, and gives Glass's arm a little affectionate forehead-butt. NannyBat. "Kick its ass, kick its ass," he agrees, sneaking another quick hit off the bong and trying to look innocent after he's done, smoke curling out of his grin. He nearly laughs, nearly loses his smoke, but forces his lungs back to stillness. "C'moh..." he coaxes airlessly to Trace, grin-inhaling at him. "Won't laugh. Jason laughs at everyone, you know that."
Trace giggles at Glass' words, then Batiste's chanting. Kick it's ass, yeah. He takes it and then the lighter and peers up between the both of you. Okay, one last chance to say something to get yourself out of this humiliation. But nothing comes to mind, so he places his lips to the barrel and lights it up. A tiny pull, just like Batiste asked. No need to be a badass about it. Even still, the smoke rushes in with a speed that he's not quite used to, and he pulls away quickly, eyes watery. He holds it out urgently, thinking don't cough don't cough, which of course makes him cough. Just a little though, not the red faced gasping and choking of last time. He just doesn't hold it very well, and only has a little to blow out afterwards. He looks up with a grin and rasps, "See, I suck."
Glass laughs and pats Trace on the shoulder, "Quick, take another before your lungs clear out and get used to real air again!" he instructs cheerily. He wiggles his brows, "And then we shall see if you suck."
"You did good, you did good," Batiste insists encouragingly, hugging Trace closer with one arm, his free hand helping to hold the bong. "C'mon, try it again." Cheering section and an old pro for a coach - every potsmoker's dream come true, isn't it?
"Yer killin' me here, guys," Trace laughs in protest, and shakes his head with a long-suffering look, but he does hang onto the bong. Okay, you. I shall learn your mysterious ways. Inspite of Glass' words, he breathes in a nice, welcomed breath of regular air first and blows it out again in preperation. Then he takes his second hit, and does a much better this time, with just a sputter that doesn't force his mouth open. He gives a tight-lipped grin and holds it out. Whose turn? He forgets. He tips his head back to blow the smoke out, a triumphant TraceDragon.
Jean-Batiste's turn. Minemine. He laughs as Trace tips his head back to exhale, and gives him a shoulderbump, then shares a lazy, dope-softened grin with Glass. See? We got him to do it. (What's this -we-, white man? Anyways.) "So, um..." he wonders, fidgeting with the bong for a moment. Time to risk the mood, can't you feel it? "What was Jordan doing here, anyways?" He takes a hit and offers it out to Glass, eyebrows raised in silent question: want more?
Glass says, "Mooching money and a place to stay off of Ben," and takes the bong back. "Does he come here often? He's like. Not discrete, you know? I can't believe Ben went for it." He hits the bong quickly and hands it back to Trace, holding his breath and giggling little streams of grey smoke from his nose.
"Well, now he's got someplace t'stay," Trace points out with dark mirth, taking the bong back. "Nice white room, an' nurses fer room service, m'sure." Now, now. Must be humble about this, he thinks as he hits the bong. His thoughts are elsewhere this time, instead of fretting, so he takes a larger hit than before and still keeps it in. Being reminded about what a dick Jordan was being last night, trying to use Ben so blatently in front of everyone, it makes him feel a *whole* lot better about the whole stairs incident. He hands the bong on to Bat.
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