Cordelia Holmes was sitting in the common room. It took her a minute to realize that statement had only been applicable to her once before in her life, and that was a good many years ago. She, however, wasn't feeling sorry for herself, or miring herself down in woe.

Instead, she had a wide array of food from the common room on the table before her, and was heartily enjoying all of it-It had been a good many years ago since she'd eaten to her heart's content, as well. Not even bothering to wipe the crumbs off her mouth-or anything else that would suggest a semblance of civility ([i] to be honest, I really don't give a damn what these egotistical pricks think of me. [/i])-Delly watched some of the people in the training room. The training room far and away seemed worthless to hill. There was a pool big enough to keep Nessie in, but Delly couldn't swim, so that was useless. Even if she did want to learn, she wasn't about to go find Fishman (who probably tried to call himself something badass like "Barracuda" or "Sharkeater" or whatever) and ask for swimming lessons. Then there were a bunch of treadmills. Delly could already run, and was pretty damned fast at a dead sprint. In her experience, if you couldn't outrun someone at a dead sprint within a minute or two, it wasn't going to happen, so working on your endurance wasn't super helpful. Not many situations on the streets where maintaining a leisurely jog for an hour and a half comes in handy. Then there were the weight benches. Delly figured they were at least sorta useful, but probably attracted the annoying gym rat types. Besides, she probably wasn't deadlifting more than a few pounds. Then, Delly had to struggle to suppress a laugh. Oh Jesus Christ they had a martial arts center. Delly viewed martial arts with general skepticism and mockery, mostly because she'd once heard you didn't need a license or anything to teach it. You could just up and start your own dojo or whatever and start handing out black belts to five year olds. Which, to her, is what the training room vaguely resembled. 

Beyond that? This whole place disgusted her. She was eating the food because, well, yeah, it was hypocrisy, but she was damned hungry-but how much had all this shit cost? I mean, all those treadmills alone were a small fortune. Keeping that pool running, everything else...the facilities this place had were ludicrously expensive. If Delly had that kinda money, she could've done a lot more good with it. A lot more. She hadn't been here very long, but she'd felt she'd been given a decent impression of the League: more interested in playing with their cool toys and playing superhero than doing any actual good. Delly'd seen some serious shit in her short, eighteen years of life.

There'd never been any superheroes swooping in to help her. Why? Because there weren't any. At the end of the day, they were people in costumes. And people are pretty easily corrupted. She was willing to bet money most of these pampered vigilantes were a few missed meals, a little too much fame and fortune, the slightest opportunity away from abusing the hell out of their power. Delly planned to be a good many miles away when it happened.

She reached for another pastry, the shadow of her arm moving a split second before her's did. Delly grabbed it, reclined back in her chair, and chewed on it. 

...what? Sure, these people pissed her off, but they had good donuts.