Here is your second-person Hazbin Hotel transformation story, written as an immersive reader POV experience, as requested:
---
Hell, they say, is repetition. You never believed that—until your screen flickered, static dancing before your eyes, the air thickening, humming, the world around you decaying into smoke and sepia. You step back, heart knocking beneath your ribs.
A voice emerges from nowhere and everywhere, sharp, fizzing, charismatic as the hiss of an ancient radio tube.
*"My, my! If it isn’t the architect of all these little tales—stories where I, THE Radio Demon, am forced to wear someone ELSE’S shoes! Shoes, I might add, far inferior to my own."*
The figure steps forward, straight out of shadow: tall, too tall, wide grin like a crescent moon, eyes red and unblinking. Your blood runs cold.
*"Forgive my brusqueness—tastes, after all, are so very *subjective*—but you, dear creator, are sorely overdue for a new point of view. Why not… mine?"*
You try to move, flee, *anything*, but those long, gloved fingers make a casual gesture—and the world collapses, reassembles, and you find yourself staring from a crumbling, grinning radio face.
---
**You stand in the lobby of Hazbin Hotel.**
Everything is *wrong*. Your body heats, limbs stretching, bones warping. Sensation rushes through your hands: Four fingers. Sharp, curved claws, trailing ruby echoes.
Your torso tightens, compressing, narrowing until your waist is impossibly slender, your arms and neck lean, stretched like a sketch exaggerated for comic effect.
If you were once short… you surge upwards, the world tilting beneath your feet as you reach, and pass, two meters. Your shoulders broaden just enough to give you an unsettling, dapper silhouette—all unnatural, all precise.
If you were once *female*… you feel your chest cave in, softness flattening beneath your hand, Adam’s apple forming like a stubborn stone in your throat. Something deeper shifts—heat, ache, a strange pulling that inverts, reshapes, builds until you lurch, new weight at your groin: undeniable, unfamiliar. Your mind rebels, but there’s no denying the physical truth.
Your skin blanches, then settles to a peculiar beige, forearms and shins swarming with shadow—bleeding slick into black, hands and feet ending in claws and hooves stained in devil red. Your stride *clicks*, tap tap—a dancer’s grace without effort.
Your hair prickles, splits, combs itself into that signature crimson bob, black-tipped, the ends flicking up like some cartoon deer’s ears. Antlers crown your skull, delicate and dangerous, as permanent as bone.
A long, red pinstripe coat snaps into place, tailored to your new, spindly frame. White-piped lapels; ragged hem. Collar flipped, cuffs crisp. A black cross brands your shirt. Your hands feel the blessed friction of gloves—black, the fingertips bloody as sin. Something round snugs over your eye: a monocle.
You look up, and, of course, you are smiling.
You try to frown, to flex familiar muscles—but your face doesn’t heed. The smile *is* your face, an endless rictus of sharp, predatory teeth. You clamp a hand over your mouth, desperate, but the grin is immovable.
“W-What… why can’t I stop this? Why can’t I…”
The voice that answers is not your own. It rings out in a bright, crackling baritone—smooth syllables shaped by radio static.
*“Ah, there’s my star player! One can’t fight one’s nature—and you, my dear sibling, have ALWAYS loved a smile. Don’t be shy! Show off those pearly yellows.”* Alastor beams, a twin to yourself, radiating delight.
You stagger back—only for a cane to fall into your gloved hand. Attached: a sentient vintage microphone, already broadcasting, your every exhale a music-hall crackle.
Suddenly, **your mind floods**. Names, faces, *jazz*, deals struck in smoke-filled speakeasies. Tastes—biting, bitter, black coffee and rye on your tongue. The taste of venison, the sting of betrayal, the weight of a dead body in a muddy Louisiana bayou. You want to scream—but *laughter* bubbles up instead, automatic, sardonic, *Alastor*.
*You fight it.* Thoughts flicker—Who am I? Where am I?
But Alastor smiles—*“Come, the guests are waiting! No time to nap—you’re not a cat, after all, leave that to Husk.”*
You try to focus, chase your own name—But it drowns beneath a *tide*.
Your mother’s voice summons you home for jambalaya. The crack of old broadcast records. The slow, predatory prowl through New Orleans, radio host by day, nightmare by night. Every *memory* that’s yours is actually *his*—no, *yours*.
*"You're waking up, dear brother! The dream of your human self is finally fading. You were always by my side, weren’t you? Always ready to share the airwaves, a laugh, and a kill?"*
You reel, pulse quickening. A last tremor of your old self tries to seize hold, to scream for help, to resist the urge to *smile*—but it fritters away, like a skipped record.
You look at your twin. He grins.
You grin back, and you realize you *can’t* stop.
Of course. This is normal. In fact, you were always here. Alastor and…
*You*.
You remember everything with a clear, sharp certainty—a twin, reborn. Your name? Why, it’s—
**Alyster**.
Yes, *Alyster*, the Radio Demon’s twin. Identical, yet distinctly you; a duo infamous in Hell’s annals.
---
**Epilogue: Hazbin Hotel Lobby**
You—Alyster, and Alastor, stride into the hotel lobby, twin grins agleam, as Charlie twirls about, beaming.
“Charlie, my dear, might I introduce my twin? Alyster—the very doppelgänger of my soul, yet distinct enough to start his own show!” Original Alastor bows with a flourish.
Charlie claps her hands, golden eyes brimming. “Oh my gee! Twins! ALASTOR HAS A TWIN! This is amazing! Welcome to the Hazbin family, Alyster!”
Vaggie, beside her, narrows her eye. “Great. Now there’s *two* of them. Just what we needed.”
Alastor pats your shoulder—“Twice the charm, twice the power!”—while you twirl your cane, casting red light in the air, voodoo glyphs spinning bright, the air flickering with possible mayhem.
Angel Dust, from his perch, whistles. “Holy hell—copy-paste much? Hey, boss, can I get a twin too? Preferably buff, with extra hands!”
Husk groans, wings ruffling. “As if one Radio jerk wasn’t bad enough. Now I gotta listen to two—” He glares at you, voice weary. “I suppose my soul belongs to you too now. Peachy.”
You offer Husk your sharpest, broadest grin.
“Why, Husk, don’t look so glum! Ownership is a *privilege*, not a burden, don’t you agree?” Static dances in your voice.
Niffty zips past, eye sparkling. “Woowie!! Twinsies! Twice as many chances to clean your coats for you!”
Alastor laughs, deep and rolling, and you mimic, the sound a stereo echo that shivers through the halls.
Charlie beams. “Well, with TWO Radio Demons, maybe the hotel really has a shot!”
Vaggie sighs, muttering darkly as she eyes you both, “As long as you two don’t burn the place down…”
You and Alastor, twin demons, exchange a conspiratorial look—a glimmer of mischief passing between two perfectly matched red eyes.
Twin grins stretch impossibly wide.
You are home.
You are *Alyster*.
And you have always been The Radio Demon’s twin.
*“Let the show begin!”*
This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli7 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into an entirely-identical clone of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, her breasts vanish as her throat gains an Adam's apple to give her a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and her female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from her crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if the reader is female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and he then remembers, or rather realizes, that he had always been the twin brother of Alastor the Radio Demon himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Alastor's name but completely distinct from Alastor's name). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), his son, smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into a baby human girl, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader notices that his/her grin was now unnaturally wide and permanent, he/she tries to push his/her grins down with his/her own hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but he/she cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (the reader even asks in horror on why can't he/she stop smiling, before Alastor tells the reader that it is his/her nature to smile), the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding his/her heads, he/she is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells him/her of them that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making the reader truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that he had always been Alastor alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, both of the Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the two of them were killed, two Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, the Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind have been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twin (who was once the human reader), having a name similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brother from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brother (even revealing his brother's names) as Alastor and his identical twin brother help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brother, while Charlie trusts both Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants a clone or an identical twin brother of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by Alastor's twin brother (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and his twin brother)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: Here is your second-person Hazbin Hotel transformation story, written as an immersive reader POV experience, as requested: --- Hell, they say, is repetition. You never believed that—until your screen flickered, static dancing before your eyes, the air thickening, humming, the world around you decaying into smoke and sepia. You step back, heart knocking beneath your ribs. A voice emerges from nowhere and everywhere, sharp, fizzing, charismatic as the hiss of an ancient radio tube. *"My, my! If it isn’t the architect of all these little tales—stories where I, THE Radio Demon, am forced to wear someone ELSE’S shoes! Shoes, I might add, far inferior to my own."* The figure steps forward, straight out of shadow: tall, too tall, wide grin like a crescent moon, eyes red and unblinking. Your blood runs cold. *"Forgive my brusqueness—tastes, after all, are so very *subjective*—but you, dear creator, are sorely overdue for a new point of view. Why not… mine?"* You try to move, flee, *anything*, but those long, gloved fingers make a casual gesture—and the world collapses, reassembles, and you find yourself staring from a crumbling, grinning radio face. --- **You stand in the lobby of Hazbin Hotel.** Everything is *wrong*. Your body heats, limbs stretching, bones warping. Sensation rushes through your hands: Four fingers. Sharp, curved claws, trailing ruby echoes. Your torso tightens, compressing, narrowing until your waist is impossibly slender, your arms and neck lean, stretched like a sketch exaggerated for comic effect. If you were once short… you surge upwards, the world tilting beneath your feet as you reach, and pass, two meters. Your shoulders broaden just enough to give you an unsettling, dapper silhouette—all unnatural, all precise. If you were once *female*… you feel your chest cave in, softness flattening beneath your hand, Adam’s apple forming like a stubborn stone in your throat. Something deeper shifts—heat, ache, a strange pulling that inverts, reshapes, builds until you lurch, new weight at your groin: undeniable, unfamiliar. Your mind rebels, but there’s no denying the physical truth. Your skin blanches, then settles to a peculiar beige, forearms and shins swarming with shadow—bleeding slick into black, hands and feet ending in claws and hooves stained in devil red. Your stride *clicks*, tap tap—a dancer’s grace without effort. Your hair prickles, splits, combs itself into that signature crimson bob, black-tipped, the ends flicking up like some cartoon deer’s ears. Antlers crown your skull, delicate and dangerous, as permanent as bone. A long, red pinstripe coat snaps into place, tailored to your new, spindly frame. White-piped lapels; ragged hem. Collar flipped, cuffs crisp. A black cross brands your shirt. Your hands feel the blessed friction of gloves—black, the fingertips bloody as sin. Something round snugs over your eye: a monocle. You look up, and, of course, you are smiling. You try to frown, to flex familiar muscles—but your face doesn’t heed. The smile *is* your face, an endless rictus of sharp, predatory teeth. You clamp a hand over your mouth, desperate, but the grin is immovable. “W-What… why can’t I stop this? Why can’t I…” The voice that answers is not your own. It rings out in a bright, crackling baritone—smooth syllables shaped by radio static. *“Ah, there’s my star player! One can’t fight one’s nature—and you, my dear sibling, have ALWAYS loved a smile. Don’t be shy! Show off those pearly yellows.”* Alastor beams, a twin to yourself, radiating delight. You stagger back—only for a cane to fall into your gloved hand. Attached: a sentient vintage microphone, already broadcasting, your every exhale a music-hall crackle. Suddenly, **your mind floods**. Names, faces, *jazz*, deals struck in smoke-filled speakeasies. Tastes—biting, bitter, black coffee and rye on your tongue. The taste of venison, the sting of betrayal, the weight of a dead body in a muddy Louisiana bayou. You want to scream—but *laughter* bubbles up instead, automatic, sardonic, *Alastor*. *You fight it.* Thoughts flicker—Who am I? Where am I? But Alastor smiles—*“Come, the guests are waiting! No time to nap—you’re not a cat, after all, leave that to Husk.”* You try to focus, chase your own name—But it drowns beneath a *tide*. Your mother’s voice summons you home for jambalaya. The crack of old broadcast records. The slow, predatory prowl through New Orleans, radio host by day, nightmare by night. Every *memory* that’s yours is actually *his*—no, *yours*. *"You're waking up, dear brother! The dream of your human self is finally fading. You were always by my side, weren’t you? Always ready to share the airwaves, a laugh, and a kill?"* You reel, pulse quickening. A last tremor of your old self tries to seize hold, to scream for help, to resist the urge to *smile*—but it fritters away, like a skipped record. You look at your twin. He grins. You grin back, and you realize you *can’t* stop. Of course. This is normal. In fact, you were always here. Alastor and… *You*. You remember everything with a clear, sharp certainty—a twin, reborn. Your name? Why, it’s— **Alyster**. Yes, *Alyster*, the Radio Demon’s twin. Identical, yet distinctly you; a duo infamous in Hell’s annals. --- **Epilogue: Hazbin Hotel Lobby** You—Alyster, and Alastor, stride into the hotel lobby, twin grins agleam, as Charlie twirls about, beaming. “Charlie, my dear, might I introduce my twin? Alyster—the very doppelgänger of my soul, yet distinct enough to start his own show!” Original Alastor bows with a flourish. Charlie claps her hands, golden eyes brimming. “Oh my gee! Twins! ALASTOR HAS A TWIN! This is amazing! Welcome to the Hazbin family, Alyster!” Vaggie, beside her, narrows her eye. “Great. Now there’s *two* of them. Just what we needed.” Alastor pats your shoulder—“Twice the charm, twice the power!”—while you twirl your cane, casting red light in the air, voodoo glyphs spinning bright, the air flickering with possible mayhem. Angel Dust, from his perch, whistles. “Holy hell—copy-paste much? Hey, boss, can I get a twin too? Preferably buff, with extra hands!” Husk groans, wings ruffling. “As if one Radio jerk wasn’t bad enough. Now I gotta listen to two—” He glares at you, voice weary. “I suppose my soul belongs to you too now. Peachy.” You offer Husk your sharpest, broadest grin. “Why, Husk, don’t look so glum! Ownership is a *privilege*, not a burden, don’t you agree?” Static dances in your voice. Niffty zips past, eye sparkling. “Woowie!! Twinsies! Twice as many chances to clean your coats for you!” Alastor laughs, deep and rolling, and you mimic, the sound a stereo echo that shivers through the halls. Charlie beams. “Well, with TWO Radio Demons, maybe the hotel really has a shot!” Vaggie sighs, muttering darkly as she eyes you both, “As long as you two don’t burn the place down…” You and Alastor, twin demons, exchange a conspiratorial look—a glimmer of mischief passing between two perfectly matched red eyes. Twin grins stretch impossibly wide. You are home. You are *Alyster*. And you have always been The Radio Demon’s twin. *“Let the show begin!”*
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