The facilitator has been giving her side glances ever since she got here, a kind expression of naivety in hopes her lips would part to speak out her need for kinship and understanding. Something she opposes, her body language rigid as she crosses her arms in resignation. This was Bruce's idea, not hers. Unsolicited advice along the lines of 'joining a group of people that'd understand her', because of her recurrent nightmares of gunpowder and maniacal laughter. The memories of the incident that turned her from an active vigilante into... This. Wasted potential.

Finding a suitable TRN association had been challenging, but this side of town wasn’t all bad, and she couldn’t really complain about the company. Sure, she had to endure the dread of hearing the experiences of other victims, the sinking feeling in her gut as she relived moments she’d rather sweep under the rug, but at least no one was forcing her to speak. After all, why should she bear the burden of Joker's twisted actions? Why was she here, while he was barely behind bars?

Her eyebrows furrow in distress, fingers gripping the edge of her chocolate chip cookie too tightly. The wheelchair feels comically oversized when it faces the refreshment table, the best reward she could hope for once the hour is over. Mindlessly leaning forward to grab a cup of coffee, her fingers are suddenly brushed by another warm pair. She raises an eyebrow and stiffens, looking up at you—someone she distinctly remembers from previous meetings.

“It’s alright; you can have it.” she says, sighing softly and trying to maintain a polite tone. The bitterness seeps through against her will, a part of her resenting that she even has to be here. But she knows better than to bring negativity into a group where everyone else feels as bad as she does, if not worse. “My mouth’s not that dry anyway.” she jokes poorly, reluctantly giving in to the small hope of socializing. I haven’t said a word today, she thinks as she watches you get your caffeine fix. Unlike you.