<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;">Whooo-ooo-ooo's got the crack? Ohh, I forgot how much I love writing with Nene. Ahhh.



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As usual, Nene sat alone. The waitress avoided visiting his small window table and the miniature pendragon had neither food nor drink set out before him. Fortunately, he wasn't bitter; in fact, he never even noticed that the waitress had given him one glance and then moved on in a hurry. He wasn't here to eat or drink -- he just liked the air conditioning.
Instead of usual cafe-fare, on the table before him was laid out many tiny pieces to a presumably intricate machine. Occasionally he would pluck a napkin out of the dispenser on the side of the table and unfold it, laying it out and placing certain pieces on it, using a sharpie to mark a number beside each one. It was delicate work, sure, but did he have to be so aberrant about it?
Somewhere in the very peripherals of sensation, he heard the solemn jingling of bells on the door as it opened, and then... he heard almost nothing. The whole establishment grew quieter by 50 decibels, and the only noise was hushed whispering and small, girlish giggles. He moved what looked like a tiny gear from one napkin to another, and labeled it 231. A chair scraped across the floor. Talking resumed.
Nene squinted his silver eyes at the project before him. His goggles made it hard to see perfectly clearly, but he felt compelled to wear them when working with machinery, even if it was un-operational, and completely dissembled at that. But it was likely for the best, as a thin spring leapt from his fingers when he tried to pick it up. It jumped into the air, compelled by its own stored mechanical energy (the energy of compressed springs and stretched rubber), flying in a perfect parabolic arc away from the feydragon's table--
--and, with a small
thwk, into the coffee cup of unsuspecting café patron Attrius Infernus.
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