Though Raven's one to speak up when she's riled into anger, or in a desire to uncover the truth someone's deliberately hiding in front of her, she'd been content to lean against the wall and let everyone else's mouth do the walking. Steer the conversation to where she needed it to go to get her answers, but nonetheless observe, take it all in, and decide who was worth shadowing and who wasn't.

The weapons debate is one she hates most. On the ground, with those damn kids, and now here.

"A weapon's a weapon," Raven shrugs from her place against the wall. Her arms remain crossed against her chest. It's Mark's words that give her the confidence to speak up, believing her story is one that's worth providing, if only for the context it provides for her own perspective. The ground had been toxic, and Raven had eaten up everything it had to offer.

"My people dropped one hundred kids onto Earth to test whether or not it was survivable after one hundred years of being soaked in radiation." The way she recounts it lacks any emotion. It's a professional recitation of something Raven stands against, and will, always, despite how returning to the ground had lead them to surviving without needing to cull people to ensure oxygen would last a few extra weeks. "You think they cared whether or not it was tainted? Those berries they ate, the animals they killed — they were putting that taint in themselves in order to survive."

She shrugs her shoulder, and her response turns more flippant, "So I say we take them, and we tell these overlords to go float themselves."