She had always enjoyed walking around at night.

The streets would be dark and empty, lit by only a few scattered oil lamps that cast a pretty, orange light which contrasted sharply with the surrounding blackness. It made everything seem almost...almost surreal. As surreal as her green skin, so she was able to contribute towards the picture instead of clashing with it.

But not so much at this moment, for people were still staring at her with that stupid googly look, eyes wide like saucers, mouths open, muttering to one another as if she couldn't notice. She trudged forward, hands in her pockets, hat drawn over her face to hide her cloudy, even more intimidating expression that she had perfected over 38 years. She should have waited a few hours before going out. Or do some ghosts just never sleep? Ian the Bride could so why can't these people?

She saw a small building off the side of the road that resembled a restaurant or a pub with cheap furniture scattered at the front, made with thin, white plastic that showed off the dirt and grime that clung to it. The sight was depressing and the reminded the Witch of her run down youth in the Emerald City or EC as it was now called. She quickly headed inside.

It was a dimly lit little place with rough, wooden floors that looked grey, a couple of metal tables at the back, and a large picture window, sunk into the pale brick work of the left wall. At the right, there was a bar. A bar and shrivelled, brown ghost barman who jumped when she opened the door. He looked at her with a familiar, glazed expression, his mouth twisted into a remnant of a smile.

But she was too happy and too dead to care, to be saddened by his state. She sat on a stool in front of him.

"So how long have you been dead?" she asked.

He laughed, a high pitched, pealing shriek that at would have made her cringe at one point but now made her chuckle in amusement. The Barman poured two glasses of whiskey. His hands were tattooed with dark blue swirls that twisted their way around his fingers like smoke, drifting its way up his hands and arms. He winked as he handed her drink. She could see more markings around the base of his neck and chest, the shapes crunched according to his shrunken stature.

"On the 'ouse." he said, his speech already slurred.

She thanked him and sipped her drink, surprised she had the capacity to do so. Or maybe the whiskey had gone bad in a previous life and was now dead. At least it tasted the same. The barman staggered to the back of the bar to wipe and wash glasses and she watched the markings on his arms contort with his movements, curios.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He stopped what he was doing and turned to peer at her. "Now thas somethin I don't get of'en." he said slowly, as if deciding whether to tell her or not. He went back with his work. "Name's Darrow." he said over his shoulder.

"Darrow." she said, trying it out for herself. "Are you from here?"

"I'm Vinkun originally."

That much was obvious, with his dark skin and tribal markings. She sipped her drink.

"I just got here two days ago." she said. "I keep thinking about all the people I've known and loved and wronged – I'm actually responsible for a few being here. Do you ever find that awkward?"

Darrow paused for a moment. "I was put here by a guy." he said. "I'll forgive him when I see him in hell."

"Well this is close enough isn't it?" replied the Witch jauntily. "Who was he?"

"My brother, Fiyero."

The Witch's eyes went wide and she sputtered in her drink, sending fumes up her nose, causing her to cough. Darrow handed her a napkin.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Your brother - " the Witch coughed again. "you're brother whats his – whats your last name?"

Darrow peered at her, looking like a spindly little insect. "Tiggular." he said slowly.

"My god, I know you people!"

"Yeah most people do." he sounded tired as he said it. "We're Tiggular; The Royal Family of Shit."

"Are you all here?" the Witch glanced at the back door, half excepting for Sarima to come bounding in, all sisters two through six in tow. And Fiyero, with that nonchalant stride of his, his sons; Irji and Mankek beside him.

"They're at South stairs last time I heard." Darrow refilled their glasses.

"I'm sorry for that." said the Witch earnestly. It felt good to be able to finally say it. "And for Fiyero. It wasn't supposed to happen."

"Well we're all a bit sorry."

There was a commotion at the entrance of the bar. The Witch looked up to see the Bride and Ian burst through the doors, stumbling over one another in their hurry. They headed straight for the Witch, their steps heavy and quick.

"Hi there!" said the Bride with artificial brightness. "You having fun here? Well no matter, pay the good man and get going."

"Hello to you too." replied the Witch.

"I didn't know there was a bar." said Ian. "You know, I might sit for a drink -"

"No you're not." snapped the Bride. "We're going."

The Bride slapped a few crumpled bills onto the counter then yanked the Witch off her seat, causing her to stumble backwards, feeling like an underage, college freshman being kicked out of the bar after being shunned by her hyper, pink sparkle of a roommate. She quickly composed herself then downed the rest of her drink just for spite. She set her glass down on the counter just before the Bride suddenly grabbed her by the collar and all but hauled her across the bar and out the door, followed by a snickering Ian and Darrow Tiggular who stared after her curiously.

Once outside, the Witch, who was no longer used to the indignity of being manhandled, whirled around out of the Bride's grip.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said.

The Bride gave her a disbelieving look. "What the hell am I doing?" she replied incredulously. "What the hell are you doing, you could have been caught!"

"What do mean caught? What can we do with each other if we're dead?"

"For God sake, we're the only one's who're dead here! Everyone else is alive!"

The Witch stopped short. "How is that possible? How can they see me – and why didn't you say something about this earlier?"

"We didn't think you'd transition so quickly."

"How do mean 'transition?'"

The Bride sighed, aggravated. "I was never good at explaining this."

"It's like this." said Ian. "You died, that's no problem, and your body will be carted away for the bugs to enjoy. But what about your soul?"

"I have no soul."

"What – how did you know about -"

"Even if you don't have a soul." the Bride cut him off. "Or if it's torn up and hanging by a thread, it still needs to be...well you could say it needs to be dealt with – taken care of."

"And that's where we come in." said Ian.

"So I've been assigned to maintenance?" The Witch didn't know how she felt about that. "Why me?"

"Oh it's nothing personal." said the Bride. "It's like...um – Ian what's that thing that Melena always says? Something about shopping..."

Melena. It was a common enough name. Although the Witch hadn't heard it in thirty years and hearing it again, now of all times left a hollow feeling.

"You don't seem like much of a shopper." Ian said to the Witch. "So maybe you don't know, but sometimes stores give out discounts on certain costumers who present a kind of milestone. Like the lucky hundredth shopper who gets a free shirt or something."

"And if I don't want it?"

Ian shrugged.

"You'll get used to it." said the Bride. "Think of it as a second chance."