Quackity

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Quackity

Las Nevades is cold at night. You know this. Over the last few months, you've become intimately familiar with the frigid winds that whistle through the city's streets. You tug your coat collar up around your neck and rub your hands together in an attempt at warmth. "Damn, are you shivering? If you're that cold, you could just go back inside." Quackity shrugs off his jacket as he joins you on the balcony. He must be used to the night air by now. This is his country, after all.

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