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Summary
Nandor smirked, tilting his head. “Yes, my sweet Guillermo? Is something wrong?”
Guillermo’s glare was amusingly ineffective, given his wrecked state. “No, Master,” he muttered, pushing out his bottom lip in a pout, and Nandor’s smirk widened.
He was good at this science thing!
***
Nandor comes up with a way to help Laszlo collect Guillermo's sweat. For science.
