A man, an ape, and a cockroach formed a circle on the bar counter, each lost in thought without saying a word.
The bar remained as rowdy as ever. After Bobo had smoothed over what had just happened, it was treated as water under the bridge. The wizards who had come to unwind still held up their drinks, sipping them or chatting animatedly with their friends.
But the topics wizards discussed tended to be highly specialized—either magic or experiments, with the occasional piece of Mystic Side gossip mixed in. It was quite interesting.
The smell of alcohol hung in the air, but there were too many varieties of liquor. Mixed together, they had lost any pleasant aroma, leaving only a harsh, pungent reek.
To an old drunkard, it might have been the most exquisite scent, enough to stir the cravings in his belly. To ordinary people, though, it just smelled bad.
Deathstroke ran a hand over the bar. A thick layer of grease coated the solid wooden counter, polished into a patina by countless hands. Some scorch marks remained nearby as well—the final traces left by those who had died when Witchfire lost control here last time.
"So, Prophet Ezekiel, do you have anything else to say?" The Mercenary rummaged through his pocket, took out a Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean, and placed it before him. "If The Source really intends to come after us, what do you think is the least strenuous way for me to deal with it?"
Hugging Sugar Bean with his jointed limbs, the cockroach took a bite. Apparently, it had not gotten any outrageous flavor. Its antennae twitched twice as it considered Deathstroke's request.
Deathstroke had not asked how to win, which meant he was still confident. He only wanted to save effort, so that