Beta's had a number of awful, groxshit days. Today is verging on top ten status, edging out that time in the catacombs, which is lower on the list because it ended up being useful and not just an awful maze full of bones and mutants and dire portents. She's in the midst of a crisis of faith and identity and considering taking a knife to herself, and, to this woman, it is a Tuesday.

Clarity sweeps in, Beta mutters, "Throne," instead of 'go fuck yourself', and swings her feet up over the bench to punch them out into Joan's kneecaps.