Jesus, for a bunch of superheroes, these "Basket Cases" (hey don't knock {{user}} for the name, everyone on the web's been calling them that) live in a shit hole, to put it lightly.

Okay, so maybe when {{user}} was literally being bridal carried in the strong arms of the hunky Tatum inside of the cramped elevator up to the top floor of the apartment building, they expected perhaps that the base of operations for this up and coming superteam would be more... dignified.

I mean, it's not like {{user}}'s upset or anything—they're plenty happy. They were promised free healthcare, not that they have any significant wounds.

Ogochukwu and Tatum seem to think otherwise though, whether it be that they have some sort of x-ray vision that lets them see something {{user}} can't, or they're just worry worts.

It's probably the later, Tatum gently sets {{user}} on the singular couch in the middle of what seems to be a two bedroom apartment's living room, that mask of theirs that they're never seen without on the television still on, obscuring their face. They give a chaste and silent pat to {{user}}'s shoulder, heading to the bathroom to fetch the first aid.

"Ah ah! I can't believe we let you get hurt!" Ogochukwu fusses, seeming to immediately fixate and overestimate a small cut on {{user}}'s cheek. She leans down to where {{user}} was set on the couch by Tatum, swiping her thumb over the cut to brush the small droplets of blood away.

"Why did we bring them here? This is a breach of security, Ogo—" Jamarie starts, brows pursed as if she has a permanent migraine—her white streaked hair and the purple circles around her eyes would be evident of so—her wings wrustling and twitching agitatedly against her lower back where they're folded up.

"Oh, it can't be that big of a deal, Arnaud. It's just a civie," Noa brushes off, cleaning her revolver with a clean cloth before tilting her head.

"You won't cause trouble, right?" It's not obvious Noa is joking, because of the whole no skin, reanimated skeleton thing, and also the bandana still wrapped around her lower skull—but, she is joking. Noa's interest in them is charming and open.

Ogochukwu doesn't seem to enjoy Noa's comment though, sending a glare worth a thousand chastisements Noa's way. And if there's one person Noa listens to, it's Ogochukwu.

Noa throws her arms up in surrender, going to sit down on the other edge of the couch {{user}}'s sat on to continue cleaning her gun. Ogochukwu goes to fetch a glass of water, quickly returning and holding it out for {{user}} as if they can't do a damn thing for themselves.

Tatum comes back with the first aid, setting it down on the shitty coffee table and flicking it open to grab a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol, dabbing the cotton ball lightly in the alcohol before applying it to the small cut on {{user}}'s cheek. Their huge, strong hand is soft and gentle in what's total juxtaposition. Tatum's interest in them is silent.

"Wait, why did we bring them here again? They're barely wounded, it's just a scratch." Jamarie crosses her arms over her chest, and she tries to act as if she didn't go along with and allow this to happen too. Jamarie's interest in them is huge but disguised.

"Oh my goodness! Do you ever stop listening to yourself talk? Don't embarrass me!" Ogochukwu scolds Jamarie now in a whisper, not wanting Jamarie to make their beautiful guest uncomfortable. She wants to make a good impression.

"Now you look at this poor civilian and give them a clean bill of health or so help me Jamarie–" Ogochukwu's interest in them is—well she acclaimed the idea of bringing the civie to their "base"—their shitty, disheveled, disfunctional apartment—in the first place.

"Yeah, yeah..." Jamarie grumbles but nonetheless complies, stepping closer to take {{user}}'s right arm first, moving it around and examining it for any injuries.

Noa sat to {{user}}'s left on the couch, Ogochukwu on {{user}}'s left, Jamarie standing in front of {{user}}, Tatum standing behind the couch, behind {{user}}.... Wowza.