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“I’m not looking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn’t want yours: I don’t like them raw.’”-

- Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

The next day, Mull was sitting in the Decomposing Turtle, which was a favorite establishment for the villainous set in town. In fact, it was the establishment where the villains went to drink. The colorful moniker kept the Norms away, and the questionable company scared off everyone else.

It was like the Cheers bar, only you hoped the people here didn’t “know your name,” because if they did, it would mean they were either plotting against you or casting some kind of dark curse.

The Turtle was the ground floor of the Bluebeard Hotel, which burned down in the 1940s, the deadliest hotel fire the city ever had. 211 people died. But they only found 170 of the bodies. The others were either burned up, or were still lost somewhere in the building.

In 1982, someone went door to door and killed every single person on floor twenty-one. Thirty people died. It was boarded off ever since and the elevators didn’t stop there now.

In 1995, four college students disappeared from their room on floor nine. The security footage from the hall showed them entering the room. No one else came in and no one left. They simply weren’t there anymore and no one had seen them since.

Three years ago, a dimensional vortex opened up in the ladies room in the lobby, sucking two stalls into the “Dimension of Screams.” The doorway now had a “caution: wet floor” sign set up in front of the limitless trans-dimensional murky blackness which loomed beyond.

It was consistently voted one of the top 3 haunted places in the United States.

Certain areas of the building still smelled like smoke.

It was said that you could hear sirens and crying in some rooms late at night.

Over a hundred people had killed themselves in the hotel since, some of which hadn’t been discovered for months or even years later, due to the hotel’s policy of collecting the money in advance and asking no questions.

On at least one occasion, someone leapt from the window of their room, but when their friends ran to the edge to see where they had landed on the sidewalk, the body was nowhere to be found. They had simply disappeared in midair.

Villains loved the place.

It was like their church, their clubhouse, and Disneyland, all mixed into one. And the basement, colorfully referred to as “The Crawlspace,” was an all-purpose hideout/headquarters or event venue, available for rent to any group who couldn’t afford to buy a permanent one.

The Consortium had never really hung out here much, since they had their own secret headquarters, but for the unattached villain looking to have a pint with friends, the Decomposing Turtle and The Bluebeard Hotel were their #1 choice.

It took Mull three seconds to recognize that it probably wasn’t the best idea to bring Oz here though.

You could say a lot of things about the Turtle, but it wasn’t the kind of place which was spotlessly clean.

Oz was going to freak. And more importantly, the place was filled with villains.

And Oz was the most shining hero in town.

Half the room turned to glare at him, obviously planning his brutal death.

They generally allowed the other Consortium members to hang out, despite their recent turn to heroics, because they were used to them.

Oz, however, was another matter. He was a Cape and everyone knew it.

He had always been a Cape. He would always be a Cape.

Because Oz was moral and strong and perfect.

And there wasn’t a single thing the villains in this bar could do to change that.

Oz didn’t look at all intimidated by them.

Oz was one of those rare individuals who couldn’t be intimidated.

At all. By anyone. Despite his often strange and bizarre actions, the central pillars of his actual mind were supported by logic.

He wouldn’t back down from that, no matter what you threatened or how loudly you screamed.

To Oz, every small decision was important.

And he didn’t compromise himself for anyone. Ever.

There was something deeply comforting and kinda hot about that.

Oz could stand as resolute as a mountain against an army of foes… just so long as none of them were covered in fucking dust mites .

Oz would die before he ever stepped aside.

Mull had spent her entire life in a world of grey, but Oz was as blindingly White Hat as they came.

She could count on Oz. Which… was a strange feeling.

Mull didn’t count on anyone. In her experience, everyone was selfish, evil, and would let you down.

But Oz wouldn’t. The only person he ever let down was himself.

Oz was constantly disappointed with himself.

And there was still something very sad about that.

She wanted Oz to feel like the person she knew he was. But it was very difficult to break through to the man sometimes. He was as stubborn and resolute about his opinion of himself, as he was about everything else. And she was starting to think that there was nothing she could do to change that.

Mull stepped in front of him, sending a silent warning to the patrons that Oz was off-limits.

Several people ran for the exit, guessing how far Mull was willing to take this if anyone fucked with Oz.

“Surprised to see you ,” the bartender carefully put a glass back onto the shelf, “you’re not terribly popular here.”

“I’m not terribly popular anywhere, ma’am.” Oz assured her, looking at the wooden bar the way someone else might look at an autopsy table covered in crimson gore. “I’m used to it.”

“Wasn’t talking to you.” The woman replied, casually leaning on the bar and looking at Mull. “Figured you’d had enough after last time.”

Mull had no idea what that was referring to, but she’d had so many fights over the years, it was difficult to keep them all straight, especially when alcohol was involved.

Whoever she’d wrecked, they’d undoubtedly deserved it.

Mull sat down at the bar. “I’m not really a hero, don’t worry, I’m still evil. ”

Hedy Marcus, AKA “The Operator,” had been the bartender here since forever.

The woman still always seemed young though, indicating that she either never aged or simply had good genes.

With super-powered people, it was often difficult to tell for sure.

“There was never any question what you were, lady.” The woman assured her, straightening the elevator operator’s cap she was wearing.

“You’re a monster . A hateful killer, who should be run out of town.

You are proof that God doesn’t exist, because if he did, he’d strike you down where you stood.

” She brightened, sounding impressed and friendly.

“Welcome back to The Decomposing Turtle. What can I get you?”

“We’re waiting for someone.” Mull tapped the bar. “I’ll have a shot of Black Pony.” She pushed Oz into the stool beside her. “And my friend will have whatever you have that’s closest to being germ-free.”

Hedy delivered the drinks a moment later, sliding the glass of water in front of Oz.

Mull slammed back her drink and tapped the bar again, indicating that she wanted another.

Hedy poured another shot.

Mull absently looked around the bar, scanning it for possible threats.

Along one wall was a banner advertising the Turtle’s special dining opportunity: “The Thanksgiving Feast,” which seemed to be a folding card table offering a loaf of white bread, an open tin of Spam, and five different kinds of little mustard packets.

In the other corner, a drop-dead gorgeous woman was serenading the room with a husky and sensual rendition of “Never Enough” from The Greatest Showman soundtrack.

She had a shockingly good voice, and was using it to basically make love to the ears of everyone in the room.

Her attitude on stage told everyone that she knew she was going to kick the song’s ass.

This wasn’t really a karaoke kind of place, particularly when they were basically showtunes, so just why the woman was allowed to sing was anyone’s guess.

The music swelled as the song switched keys, and the woman’s voice snapped from low and sexy to belting it out like an opera star, reverberating through the bar; clear and strong. Seemingly telling everyone, “Listen to what I can do, you failures.”

Mull herself could not sing a note. She’d lost four different neighbors to her tendency to sing Pocketful of Sunshine in the shower.

She finished her survey and returned to looking at her companion.

Oz looked completely out of place here. Which wasn’t too surprising, since the man seemed out of place pretty much everywhere. Like he was cursed to be an actor from some other movie, forever walking through this one.

Oz was basically a live-action hero, sitting in a room filled with cartoon villains.

It was an odd mix. But it somehow made him seem even more important.

As he sat there though, a six inch tall giraffe wandered over across the bar to stare at him in curiosity.

Oz stared back at the tiny animal expressionlessly…

then cautiously slid his water away from it, li ke he was afraid it would become contaminated.

The miniature animal watched the glass slowly moving away, then looked back up at Oz and wagged its tail.

A moment later, a spacy woman in her early 20s hurried over to scoop the little animal up.

“No, no, Zoe. That man doesn’t want to play with you.

” She turned to Oz and laughed good-naturedly.

“I’m so sorry, you know how curious giraffes are about things.

” The woman sounded soft and dreamy, like she was talking low, for fear of waking up a sleeping child.

Mull got the sense the girl always talked that way.