The basement was piled high with all kinds of clutter and trash, much of it bearing traces of having been soaked and dried. The place was damp and gloomy, perfectly suited for a deranged killer to live in.
"Hey, Eggy, you live here?" Deathstroke greeted the enormous egg in the trash heap, then headed toward the old boiler in the corner.
This guy called Eggy really was an egg—or rather, he looked more like an egg-shaped Doctor Octopus, moving around with a belt fitted with mechanical limbs.
He counted as a bottom-tier villain. His dream was to own a pancake stand of his own, but because he was so weak in a fight, he could not even find suitable odd jobs.
After all, he was an egg. Even a child touching him could crack his shell and spill the white and yolk inside, which would mean a serious injury. The word "hope" had never had anything to do with his life. Just staying alive was hard enough.
The simple act of walking, effortless for ordinary people, was fraught with danger for him.
"Oh, uh, hello, Mr. Deathstroke." Eggy, who had been curled up asleep in the garbage pile, stood up. Rubbing his two mechanical arms awkwardly, he said, "Did Harley send you to collect the rent? I don't have any money right now, and it's dark and slippery outside, which is too dangerous for me. Please give me a few more days. Don't kill me and turn me into scrambled eggs."
Deathstroke shook his head and waved a hand, pulling out Godslayer and turning it into a tool before starting to inspect the boiler.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
The people renting rooms in Harley's little building were all people she found interesting. She did not care