The street lamps around the little park square have just flickered on, and pixel Nikola Tesla has stepped out of the laboratory for his favourite part of the day. His coat pockets are full of seed, and the pigeons of the city know it. One lands behind him, then another, and soon they are marching after him in perfect single file. The neighbours watching from their windows call it the Pigeon Promenade.
Every little heap of seed he scatters on the cobbles brings another pigeon into the line, and the walk gets a little brisker with each one. An iron railing surrounds the square, so a wrong turn ends the evening, and so does stepping on a pigeon's tail feathers. Now and then a spinning copper egg wobbles across the stones, a small marvel worth a big bonus. How long can the flock grow before the lamps go out?
