There was a zebra in the far corner, bigger than the witch he had seen in the forest so long ago who had a dirty brown cloak and a bandolier with bulbous glasses filled colourful and sometimes luminescent liquids. Now, Handy was not one for being racist, but he was starting to suspect all zebras of being witches. He knew it was wrong to judge a species based on such a small selection of the population, but, fuck it, he’d been doing that since he got here, so why stop now?