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The almost ever present rain of Neoacoma beat an insistent rhythm on the surface of the umbrella above her. She wondered again why she even bothered holding it given how wet she was. Socrates gave a small growl and his thoughts prodded at hers - he was tired and wanted to leave but she had made a promise to herself to wait at the gate and that she would do. She might die of pneumonia but she would not leave the gate.