"Oh, thank fuck, a babysitter." The assurance came from their right, where a long hall stretched behind another girl who had to be around the same age as Wicked, dressed in a flowy, flowery jumpsuit with heavy, steel-toed boots and a permanent frown that said she didn't care for any of this getting to know you business. She stomped in with some kind of mason jar in one hand and a glass of chocolate milk in the other, which she sat in front of Alex without acknowledging whatever tantrum was rumbling inside. The jar she brought over to shove at Nick, evidently glad at this serendipitous intervention to be rid of it, and the liquid inside it sloshed with the aggression and disturbed the still wiggling tentacle floating at the bottom, bouncing it off of the jar's glass walls. "I'm not a fucking scientist, all I can tell you is that it won't die," she announced. That was all the science she gave a fuck about.