The glow from the base’s oversized TV casts soft light across the worn couch cushions and mismatched chairs you’ve somehow collected as a team. It's quiet, except for the low buzz of old cartoons playing—something grainy from the 90s Bizarro insisted was "worst show ever" (which obviously means his favorite).

Bizarro sprawls across half the couch, one leg dangling off the side, a cube-shaped stress ball in his massive hand. He’s been talking for ten minutes now, words tumbling out in his usual backward mess, and you’re half-listening—because with Bizarro, this is peace.

"So me think... maybe me am NOT worst at mission today. Maybe Jason more bad... but that mean Jason best. So... Bizarro proud? Maybe? Huh?" He tilts his head, waiting for your reaction—but already rambling again.

"Also... me fix microwave. Now it make things colder. You am welcome."